Things that start with M
by tazia101
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is lost in the monotony of mundane life, visiting Sherlock's grave every week. But one day, he meets someone there. A dark-haired genius who's supposed to be dead. Oh no, it's not who you're thinking. Don't be OBVIOUS, nothing is as it seems, and madness is like gravity... Like falling down a rabbit hole.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Mourning**

"So she sat on with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality."

-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.

_Sherlock, _

_My therapist decided at tonight's session that I should write you a letter. You know, get all my emotions out on paper. There are things I never told you, and we all know it. I suppose she thinks I'll write them, since I refuse to say them out loud. She's wrong. You'll never read this letter, so what's the point? So; I have a list here beside me of things I'm supposed to talk about. Let's get this over with. _

_I miss you; that's obvious. The funny thing is that the things I 'hated' are the things I miss the most now. I continually wish I had a person with me that was actually willing to tell others how stupid they're being. Or your clutter, everywhere, having to move piles of books, papers, and jars, just to sit down. I moved out of 221B, and the new flat is so empty, neat, orderly, blank. There's barely anything in the fridge, and I still expect to find severed heads or body parts in there sometimes. It's almost disappointing when there's nothing. _

_I'm supposed to talk about my routine. That pretty much says it all; routine. I'm trapped in the endless repetition that I joined the army to avoid. Everything in my week is something I did the week before, and something I'll do next week, and so it goes, on and on and on. Predicable, blank, dull. _

_I wake up at 7:30 every morning. Always to the sound of my alarm. Never gunshots downstairs. Never someone running in shouting that they've set the kitchen on fire, and can't find the extinguisher. Just the alarm, and the empty flat. Predictable. Blank. Dull. I get dressed, and go to work at the clinic. The same, uninteresting problems. I wish I could be working in surgery again, but the tremor in my hand is back, and I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them it goes away when I'm under pressure. Every day, at 12:30, someone puts a peanut-butter and jam sandwich on my desk. I don't like peanut butter, but I eat it anyways. I save the crusts for last, and remember that you wouldn't eat crust; always left it behind on your plate. Worthless. Discarded. _

_My limp has returned. It was gradual, but it happened. I had to get a new cane, since I threw my old one in the river. I didn't think I'd ever need it again. According to my therapist, the emotional trauma had reminded me of my past physical trauma. Since feeling physical pain is easier than grieving, my mind provides me with a distraction. Then again, as your brother pointed out, she's never been very good at diagnosing me. _

_I work full shifts at the clinic now. Nobody texts me to interrupt my work. I wish they would; no one does. I catch the same train home every day. If it's a Thursday, like today, I go see my therapist. On Saturdays I visit your grave. I'm the only one that visits it. Maybe Molly. I don't know. Mycroft wouldn't bother, Mrs. Hudson's hip has gotten worse, and no one else knows where it is. I go to sleep at 10, and wake up at 1am with the nightmare. You'd know the one. After all, it's the only place I get to see you anymore. I almost look forward to seeing you approach the edge. Because for those few minutes, as you stand there, your eyes on me, your silhouette all dramatic, you're __**alive. **__Even as you mock me, about not getting there quicker, or you repeat those horrible untruths about you being a fraud, or you tell me that I never meant anything, you're still alive._

_And then, or course, you're falling, and I'm screaming, and I see the blood on the concrete, and then I wake up, and it's exactly 1am. And I resent that you've become just another piece of my routine. _

_I know what will happen, every minute of every day. And I __**hate **__it. I miss the late-night chases, the unexpected drug busts, someone telling me that I'm being an idiot, ordering me out at ridiculous hours to get something they need for an experiment. My therapist says that the point of grieving is to let that person go, to let them move on. But I don't want you to move on, or rest in peace, and I don't think you want to either. You don't belong there, wherever you are. You belong in the chair across from me, working on a case, or running across London like a maniac. I'm a selfish bastard, but I don't care. I want you __**here, **__Sherlock. Or perhaps I want to join you, wherever you are. _

_It's not fair. None of it is. Sometimes I hate you for jumping. But mostly, I miss you. I need you. Come back; there are cases that need to be solved. Lestrade needs you to regain his reputation. Mrs. Hudson needs the money for our flat, to pay for her hip surgery. And I need you, so that I can remember how to smile. So that I can walk properly again. So that I can write a letter without my hand shaking. So that I can feel alive again. Come back, Sherlock. Please?_

_-John H. Watson._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Memories.**

_"And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story." -Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

John reread what he had written, stretching out his writing cramp, and grimaced. He sounded pathetic. Then again, he felt the same, so maybe that was simply what he was. He'd thrown the list of questions into the garbage about half-way through, the words no longer difficult, simply spilling onto the page. After a moment of hesitation, he took the letter and folded it in thirds, slipping it into the waiting envelope beside him. He sealed it, and took up the black ball-point pen again. He wondered idly if anyone had ever been killed with a pen. Probably. He shook aside the thoughts, and put the pen to the envelope.

_Sherlock. _

Then he stared at the sealed letter, suddenly at a loss for what to do. Throwing it into the garbage seemed somewhat anti-climactic. Even the thought of burning it made him wince. Should he bury it in the garden, where no one would ever find it? John sighed, frustrated. He hadn't written this letter so that no one could read it. He'd written it for Sherlock. Who was never going to be able to read it. Because he was dead.

Dead; John hated that word. As an army doctor, he was used to saying it, but every time he did, it was heavy with shame. Another person he hadn't been able to save. Another family to inform. Another person gone, because he hadn't been fast enough. He hated to put Sherlock into that group. Sherlock defied all groups, all labels, any categories John could try to fit him in. There were no words for Sherlock Holmes, and why should 'dead' be sufficient to describe him now? It was senseless. All of this was senseless.

He rose, grabbing his cane, and hobbled across to the door. He spent five minutes on the street before he got a cab. He gave the address, and leaned back, trying his best not to think about his first case with Sherlock, the one where he'd killed the cab driver. He tried to feel a vague sense of regret for that, but couldn't manage it. The cabby hadn't really been attacking Sherlock; he hadn't been an immediate danger. A shot into the wall would have taken Sherlock's attention away from the pill for as long as it would take John to run between the buildings. But no; he had been angry, and he'd killed the cab driver instead. John waited, searching inside himself for sorrow, or regret, or _anything _related to the cab drivers death.

Disturbed by the nothingness he found, John stared out the window at the shops going by, letting his mind empty, until all there was was the world outside, and nothing to distract him inside himself. Then the black fence of the graveyard slid across his vision, and he refocused reluctantly.

"We're here," the cabby said unnecessarily. John paid him, thanked him, and set off into the graveyard. His feet carried him easily along the familiar path he'd been walking so often in the last two months. Every Saturday—Just another piece of his stifling routine. John looked down at the letter in his right hand, and tried to smile. It was Thursday; Even in death, Sherlock managed to shake him out of his schedule.

He came around a turn, eyes fixing on the black grave he'd come to visit. Then he paused. There was someone already there; but who could it be? As he'd mentioned in his letter, he was the only one that visited Sherlock's grave. He came a little closer, eyes fixed on the figure. Not the man he was always hoping to find, but still, familiar, somehow. The man was kneeling before the grave, fingers tracing the letters of Sherlock's name. And then the wind carried his voice towards John, and he froze. He knew that voice. He'd know it anywhere. But it wasn't possible!

"…that I could live without you, but I'm bored. I thought it was the right time to end our game, but now I'm stuck with nothing to do, and I _hate you_! I thought that… maybe… No. You were only ever human. Weakened by _caring. _Everyone dies… Everyone dies." The last words were quiet, repeated like the mantras John's therapist had given him for meditation. As the man rose, John watched him, unable to move.

He'd seen this man lying on a gurney beside Sherlock, both men in a pool of their own blood. He'd seen this man's brains spread over the roof, proof that Sherlock had at least died with his last case complete. And now… He was standing by the late genius's grave, dusting dirt off his knees. His eyes drifted up, and locked with John's. A smile spread across the dark-haired man's face.

"Oh, Doctor Watson. Fancy seeing you here." John continued to stare. He'd seen this man's body put in a black bag and taken to the morgue. He'd taken this man's pulse and felt nothing. How…

As if he could read John's thoughts, Moriarty gave a little laugh. "Oh, poor Johnny boy, don't you know that nothing it ever as it seems? Did you _really _think that I'd be anything less than the last man standing?" He paused, casting a look to the tomb he'd knelt before. "It's a shame, you know. I thought he might be the immovable object to my unstoppable force, but he fell anyways."

John's hand slid into the waistband of his jeans, and met cold metal. He curled his fingers around the gun handle, and pulled it up, fixing his aim on Moriarty's forehead. There was no way to miss this shot; it was too perfect. The man, infuriatingly, smiled.

"Still so loyal. You make _such_ a good pet, John. Sherlock really didn't appreciate you as much as he should have. Did you tell him how brilliant he was? How amazing, how intelligent? How does it feel, to know I was smarter?" The click of a hammer being pulled back was John's only reply. Moriarty turned his back on him, walking towards the road, where a silver car was waiting. John ran after him, unwilling to shoot. This man was too valuable to kill; he was the proof that Sherlock wasn't a fraud. But he wanted to pull the trigger so _badly _that it scared him. He caught the man by the shoulder, spun him around. John rested the gun against his forehead.

"Can you fake your way out of this?" he asked. "If I shoot you in the head now, would you come back?" Moriarty was still smiling, but he looked surprised as well. Pleasantly so.

"Doctor Watson, I thought you had a psychosomatic limp." John turned slightly, realizing that he'd left his cane behind when he'd run towards Moriarty. The soft click, and the feeling of cold metal against his temple, told him that the tables had turned. He looked back to Moriarty, who was holding a gun in both hands, fixing it on John's head. "How fascinating, Johnny. There may be some sort of game in you yet. Now drop the gun." Seeing that John had no intention of doing so, Moriarty struck it out of his hand, unexpectedly fast. "Thank you. Now get in the car."

"No," John said calmly. "Go ahead and shoot me."

"Would I really be that dull? You don't know me at all, do you?" John held his gaze, refusing to look away. After a moment, Moriarty sighed impatiently. "Fine. Let's be physical about this. Close your eyes." John kept his eyes very open as Moriarty whipped the butt of his pistol around, slamming it into John's temple. The world went dark, and he heard Moriarty singing out "Nighty-night!" And then there was nothing.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, the chapters are very short, but they'll get longer soon, I promise. Thanks for reading, kind of nervous about writing a Sherlock fanfic. So... Remember to review! Please? _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Memento.**

_"Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance._

_Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?_

_Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join our dance?"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland._

The rise to awareness was sudden. One moment, John was floating in the darkness, and then he was propelled upwards into the light, suddenly gasping for air. The brightness hurt his head, and he doubled over, holding his head in his hands. He focused on his breathing, trying to regain some sort of control. In and out. In and out. The pain faded into the background, and with his eyes closed, he quickly judged his situation.

He had been knocked out by Moriarty. But the blow from the pistol should have knocked him out for a minute or so, maximum. The change in setting; he was on a couch; meant that he must have been drugged shortly after. With some trepidation, John opened his eyes. The light didn't hurt as much this time, and he waited for his eyes to adjust.

He half-expected to be manacled to a wall, or tied down in some way. He had imagined waking in a bare room, with bars and a security camera watching him. So when he looked around, he was completely surprised to find himself back at his flat. He was on the couch in the living room, with a pillow under his head. Someone had taken off his shoes, but as he looked around, he saw them in their usual spot by the door. His gun was gone, but his wallet was in his pocket, untouched, everything still there. His cane was lying beside the couch on the floor, within easy reach.

The utter normality of the scene hit John suddenly, and he started to laugh uncontrollably. He'd confronted a dead man yesterday, and today he woke up in his living room with a pillow under his head. The contrast was sickening in its irony. He shook his head once, and calmed down, the laughter draining away. When he was calm, he took a deep breath and stood up.

Instantly, his head started hurting again, and he groaned. He didn't know what Moriarty had used to knock him out, but it had left him feeling like he had a hangover. His leg hurt, too. Apparently the lack of a limp in the graveyard yesterday had only been a brief reprieve. John leaned down and picked up his cane, carefully keeping most of his weight on his steady leg. There was a card tied to the handle of his cane with a blue ribbon. Cautiously, he flipped it over. It was a short note, made out of cut-out letters from a magazine glued onto white craft paper.

The Venworth Café

July 19th

6PM

-JM

John stared at the paper for a moment. There was no way he was going. He didn't want to die; not at Moriarty's hand. And he had no intention of being pulled into one of his games. But at the same time, could he really just let this go? He could give the note to the police… No. He was forgetting that no one else believed in Jim Moriarty anymore. _Poor_ Richard Brook, framed and then driven to committing suicide. If he gave the note to the police, they'd just think he was crazy. But Johncould go alone. Moriarty wouldn't be missed; he was already supposed to be dead. His hand went to the place where his Browning was usually kept, and he remembered that Moriarty had his weapon.

Well, that settled it. He definitely wasn't going weaponless. He'd ignore the note. He tore it off his cane and threw it into the garbage, then looked up at the clock, and swore. It was noon; he was supposed to have been at the clinic three and a half hours ago. Wasn't it so ironic, that the day he wrote a letter complaining about his routine, it would be disrupted in the worst way he could think of? The letter!

He put a hand into his pocket, where the letter had been. Gone. Why had he not thought of it earlier? He quickly ran through what he had written, trying to decide if there was anything there that Moriarty would be able to use against him. He'd know John's routine, but he could learn that by trailing him for a few days. It still rankled, to know that he'd written all of that for Sherlock, only to have it fall into the hands of his killer.

Yes, John had no doubts that if Moriarty was alive, he must have killed Sherlock. John didn't know how, but he _knew _Sherlock, and he'd never commit suicide. No matter what happened, Sherlock knew there was more work, more criminals, and he'd never allow himself to die until they were all gone. Well; all the _interesting _criminals.

He pushed the entire incident out of his mind. Without his gun, there was nothing he could do, not without getting pulled into an elaborate game that John doubted he'd win. Instead, he called in sick to work, apologizing between fake coughs. Once he hung up the phone, the silence of the flat hit him all over again, and he realized that he didn't know what to do with his day.

It was Friday today, July the 19th. Aside from a dinner date that he wasn't attending, he had nothing to do, and as he looked around the tiny apartment, he felt the foreign feeling of boredom creeping up on him. Somehow he had avoided it, even as he plodded through the monotony of his predictable life. He'd been feeling so dead that it hadn't occurred to him to _be _bored. Life was dull, it was all meaningless, so why should John feel boredom, an emotion that was an urge to do something else?

But as he sat on the couch, trying to focus on the television, the unfamiliar itch was in his bones, pushing him to go out, to find someone to chat with, find _anything _to occupy his time. John ran through a list in his head. Getting drunk. No; it didn't help anything, and it usually just made bad memories worse for him. Meeting up with Harry. No. A thousand times, no. Mrs. Hudson? No; that would mean going back to Baker street. There was Greg Lestrade, who had been an unexpected friend, but John didn't appreciate his matchmaking attempts on his behalf. And… that was it. That was all he could think of.

He had turned the telly off at some point, and was staring at the dark screen. He could see his reflection in it, and behind him, the reflection of the table, and the innocent looking paper on it. _6:00. JM. Venworth Café. _

John couldn't stay here. The small rooms seemed to be mocking him, with their white walls and impersonal furniture, without clutter, without personality. Mocking him with what his life had become. John had never been _depressed. _Blank, yes. But never actively _un_happy. Today was a day of terrible firsts.

John limped into the bedroom, letting his body go to auto pilot. He pulled on new clothes. Jeans, a lighter long-sleeved shirt. In the middle of July, most people were out in T-shirts. Not John. Too many scars on his arms, memories that weren't for other people to gawk at. But he did forgo the jumpers in the summer. That was crossing a line into heat stroke, and John wasn't an idiot. Well. Depending on who you ask, he wasn't. Sherlock would…He cut off the thought, and pulled on a pair of shoes, wincing. That was the last straw; he was going out.

He hobbled to the door and shut it behind him, slipping the key into his pocket. He was on the second floor of the building, and the stairway was quiet as he made his slow way to the ground floor. Again, he had accepted the return of his limp as a natural consequence of Sherlock's death. But since it had gone away for a moment, he was now back to cursing its inconvenience, thinking back to the original injury, feeling unhappy and undeservedly punished. Then, of course, his mind was happy to provide him with all the people he'd killed, actively, passively, or through ineptitude.

John felt like he was sighing too much, so he suppressed the exhale that he wanted to let out, hoping that it would take all these memories away with it. Instead, he came out onto the street, and stood in the light drizzle. It wasn't enough to need an umbrella. Just enough to slowly weigh down his hair, wet his shirt drop by drop until it clung to his arms uncomfortably. John started walking, maneuvering through groups of people on the sidewalk. He didn't know where he was going, but the direction was unimportant. As he walked, he attempted to focus on the things around him, hoping to forget the turmoil inside him.

The traffic was heavy, and John spent a while seeing how many license plates he could memorize before his brain got too cluttered to remember the original plates. He managed to get above average, but not enough when he thought of Sherlock. Being trapped with geniuses made you think differently about your intellectual level. It was never enough…

John quickly switched his focus to the people around him, trying not to think about Sherlock, and trying to deduce the passer-by as they swept around him. The two activities were impossible to untangle, and every deduction that John managed to make was in Sherlock's voice at the back of his head. And then, inevitably, it was criticizing.

"You look, but you don't _see. _Use my methods… Idiots, all of you. Pretend you're smart. You miss everything of importance. Try again, John." It wasn't enough that he could tell the married people from unmarried, even without their rings. It wasn't enough that he could tell who had been away, and who had children. No, because he should be able to tell the _state _of their marriage from their shirt cuffs, and how _long _they'd been in _which _country, just look at their _glasses, _John, don't be dim, how can you miss it?

John turned and pushed his way into the first store on his left. It was an antique shop, full of old furniture and cluttered collectibles. The owner, an elderly woman, looked up and smiled.

"Hello, dear," she called. John nodded at her, trying not to let her remind him of Mrs. Hudson. He turned to the shelves, and had a strange sense of déjà vu. There were glass bottles, old 45s, and odd, twisted, metal implements that John couldn't discern the purpose of. As every low-budget college student, John was no stranger to second-hand shops. But this seemed stronger than a throw-back to his college days. As he looked around, trying to pinpoint the feeling, he saw it. The gaping eye sockets, stretching grin, the distinguishing stain on the left side. It was the skull from 221B.

John walked over and picked it up, remembering how Sherlock had taped cigarettes to the back of the skull so that they couldn't be found, even if John or Mrs. Hudson picked it up to check underneath. John flipped it over. There were no cigarettes now. He brought it up to eye level, and realized that this must be the shop where he'd dropped two boxes of Sherlock's things, two months ago. He'd kept nothing, wanting a new start. John went to the front, and bought the skull.

"Is that clock accurate?" he asked the woman at the front, gesturing to a grandfather clock behind her that was ticking away loudly.

"Oh, yes. I check it every day. The radio announces noon, you know, so I always turn it on to make sure. I never listen to the radio otherwise, it's bad to have radio waves coming in, you know, there were studies…" It was, apparently, just after six. John had never eaten lunch, and he was suddenly aware of his stomach's emptiness.

"Is there a good place to eat around here?" he asked, once the woman paused for breath.

"Try the café next door… I know the owner, he's such a nice man. He dog-sits for me sometimes, you know. Anyhow, good food too. Sometimes, when I give him pottery, I get a free lunch. Their chicken salad is exquisite. And the owner is _such _a nice man…" John thanked the woman quickly, and left as soon as he could, sensing another speech coming on.

He glanced into the open-window shop next door, and decided it looked good enough. Then he looked up at the name, and froze. _The Venworth Café. _He suppressed the urge to swear, and turned quickly. He'd find somewhere else to eat. He hadn't taken more than a step away, before he heard the voice, rising over the noise of the crowd.

"Johnny boy, over here!"

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_A/N: Ick, I'm sorry. It's a really boring chapter, but I just needed to get a couple concepts out there for later use. Look on the bright side; my next chapter will be the extremely tense dinner scene! _

_Also, thank you to my two reviewers, you made me blush, and that doesn't happen a lot. _

_To the rest of you (I can see the stats, I know you're out there!) please review; It's the only form of payment a fanfiction author gets!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Meetings.**

_"'The time has come,' the Walrus said,_

_'To talk of many things:_

_Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—_

_Of cabbages—and kings—_

_And why the sea is boiling hot—_

_And whether pigs have wings.'"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass._

John froze, then closed his eyes for a moment. The temptation was to walk away, but he wouldn't get very far before Moriarty caught up to him. He turned and walked reluctantly towards the voice, leaning heavily on his cane. Moriarty was grinning at him, hand falling back onto the table from waving.

"Good to see you again," he said. He delivered the line in a normal tone, suddenly sounding like any other man on the street. It was terrifying. "I see your leg is acting up again. That's too bad." His acting was superb. He actually sounded like a concerned friend. John reached the table and stood there, looking at the man that had killed his best friend, and almost killed him as well. "Well? Aren't you going to sit down? Don't be _rude._" The tone was more familiar now, playful and laced with danger. John sat.

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"I'm off duty. You can call me Jim," said Moriarty with an easy smile. Suddenly he was leaning forward slightly, eyes fixed on John, the familiar insane light in the back of his eyes. The smile was gone, and his voice was low and threatening. "In fact, you _will _call me Jim." John simply stared at the man, memories rushing back. The volatile emotions were something so uniquely Moriarty, John had never seen anything like it. One moment he was a relaxed, happy picture of normalcy, startlingly at home in the role. The next second, he was pure, intense danger, his eyes on fire with warning, body tense with the possibility of movement.

"You didn't answer my question," John said finally, and Moriarty relaxed back in his chair with a small laugh.

"What do I want?" he repeated thoughtfully. He twisted his mouth up, and then shrugged. "I want to eat. That's it for now. I'm very hungry… You kept me waiting. But I'll forgive you this time, as I can see what kept you." He gestured at the skull hanging from John's hand. "That was Sherlock's, yes? Sentiment?"

"Sherlock used to sat that in exactly the same tone," John remarked, his social filters apparently destroyed by confusion and surprise. It got a laugh from Moriarty…Jim. John couldn't tell whether it was a real laugh or not.

"Well, I'm starving. Let's order. I suggest the chicken salad," Jim said, completely changing the subject. He signaled a waitress, and she hurried over.

"Hi, what can I-"

"I'll have a grilled cheese, with non-dyed cheddar, and thinly sliced bread. With ketchup on the side, and no useless, disgusting toppings like parsley. Johnny boy here will have a dark coffee, two milks, no sugar, and a chicken salad. Without cilantro." The waitress paused, surprised at being cut off, and obviously overwhelmed by the specifics of the order.

"Could you repeat that?" she asked tentatively. Jim opened his mouth with a familiarly impatient look on his face, and John knew that whatever he was about to say would likely reduce the woman to tears.

"Yes, certainly," John cut him off with a pointed look. "Sorry about that." He repeated the order, carefully including each of the modifications. The poor girl scribbled it all down on her notepad, and moved off to the kitchen to put in their order. John turned back to see Jim watching him closely. "What?"

"I'm caught between being impressed and angry. I can see why Sherlock kept you around; having someone else deal with the idiots is certainly refreshing. On the other hand, I don't usually allow people to cut me off like that."

"Yes, well, how about you go with impressed, and I won't ask how you know my coffee order… Or how you knew I didn't like cilantro."

"Deal," Jim said. "So, what are you doing with yourself, now that your purpose in life is dead?" John's eyes narrowed at him, and he felt hatred rush into his veins. It was good, to feel something that strong again. He was spared an immediate response when the waitress arrived with John's coffee. He took a sip and gave her a smile, which was returned with an added blush. She was obviously appreciated his rescue from Moriarty's rude order. "I wouldn't encourage her," Jim commented as she left. "She'd be a disastrous girlfriend."

John leveled a glare at him. "Oh? And why's that?" Jim lit up, shooting one other glance over at the woman, and then focusing on John with exited intensity. A smile threatened John's face. He could remember Sherlock doing the same thing when he was bored, deducing the waiters for something to do.

"She's a drug addict, and she's willing to do whatever she needs to do to get money for her drug of choice, which is currently cocaine, but she's likely to be moving onto methamphetamines soon. She works here during the day, but when she gets off work, she slips on a cat outfit and goes streetwalking. She's been involved in several robberies, maybe a few murders, but she's never actually killed anyone. If she did end up coming home with you, she'd disappear during the night with whatever valuables she could get her hands on."

John shot a look over at the woman in question. The deduction hadn't been like Sherlock's. It was lacking the showy reveal of _how _he knew. As it was, he was left scanning the waitress, wanting desperately to ask Moriarty what he'd seen that John didn't, and yet unwilling to admit his ignorance. He kept silent, until he realized from the satisfied look on his face, that the reaction was exactly what Jim wanted.

"How did you know all that?" John asked, throwing his dignity out the window.

"Oh yes, I forgot. Sherlock gave his secrets to you like dog treats, right? Spoiled you with them, giving them away so carelessly. No, no. You have to do something _good _to get one of my secrets."

"I bet you made half of that up," John said half-heartedly, anger flaring and then drowning in curiosity. "Or you have a file on her somewhere." That was more likely.

"Well, of course I have a file on her, but there are ways to see everything I just told you. Some things that even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have seen." John was trying to focus on his coffee and forget his curiosity, but it wasn't working. From the smirk Jim was wearing, he could see it. "You really want to know," he commented. "Why?" It seemed like a simple question, but John found that he couldn't answer it.

He wanted to see things the way others saw them. He didn't want to be average. Nobody did, but not many people were exposed to the true possibilities of genius. But John knew that he could never catch up to Sherlock, so why did he try? Why go through memory exercises and read 'The Science of Deduction' over and over? Because nobody else believed in Sherlock's abilities anymore, and John Watson, perfectly average ex-soldier, was going to prove them wrong? He looked up and met Moriarty's eyes.

"Because I want to learn to see what I look at. Because, no matter how useless it is, I try to look at the world from other people's perspectives." Jim's eyes were locked on John's. It made him feel a strange mixture of nerves and exhilaration. Sherlock only ever gave him that sort of attention when he was explaining one of his deductions. He'd never had someone that focused on what _he _was saying.

"Dangerous thing, to see the world from my perspective," Moriarty commented. John thought back to his explanation, and realized that yes, he'd actually just made the suggestion that he'd like to see the world from the criminal mastermind's perspective. While he tried to find a response, his mouth took the initiative.

"Worse than invading Afghanistan, or getting kidnapped and forced into a bomb vest?" The familiar, sardonic smile spread across Jim's face.

"Oh, you have _no _idea, Johnny boy," he murmured. The waitress came with their food, and gave John another pretty smile. This time he only nodded back, and he saw Jim's smile grow even wider out of the corner of his eye. It looked too wide to be comfortable, vaguely reminding John of the Cheshire Cat. It was so difficult, sitting here, and making conversation, to remember that the man across from him had been responsible for Sherlock's death. And countless others.

He took a bite of the chicken salad that had been placed in front of him, and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. He smiled slightly. Moriarty's eyes fixed on his face, obviously cataloguing the new expression. John immediately stopped smiling, and glared back. Jim made an exaggeratedly sad face at him, and took a bite of his grilled cheese. The cheese stretched, still pliable with warmth. Jim made an annoyed sound with his mouth full, and used his tongue to twirl and break the strands of cheese.

John looked down at his chicken salad. It was so _strange, _to even consider the fact that Moriarty, the criminal mastermind, liked grilled cheese. It made him wonder other things. What was his favorite color? What did he do in his spare time, aside from kill people and blow up buildings? Did he like reading Orwell, or Austen, or Rowling? Or did he stick to books like 'How to make bombs' and 'Torture for Experts'?

"What's your favorite color?" John asked, and took another bite of salad to hide his embarrassment at the unintended question. Jim, in the middle of chewing another mouthful of grilled cheese sandwich, looked up and met John's eyes

"What did I say about secrets?" He said with his mouth full. "What's _your_ favorite color?"

"That's not fair," John objected. "You can't make me do all the answering."

"But you don't have the same reward-only policy, and so you really have no excuse to not answer the question." John just shrugged and continued eating. Jim's eyes narrowed, and he tapped his fingers on the table. "Fine," he said after a long pause. "An answer for an answer?"

"Red," John said in way of a response.

"Interesting. I bet you don't say that when your therapist asks, though. You say something like 'I don't have a favorite colour,' right?" John's silence was enough of an answer. The Cheshire smile was back. "Well, today, my favorite colour is blue, but yesterday it was red." At first, John simply accepted the answer as slightly insane. Then he realized what Moriarty was really telling him.

Blue was the most common favorite colour. Standard. Calming, and peaceful. It was describing what Jim had to be today, at least, by his own standards. Red, in contrast, was the colour of action. Daring, anger, blood and fire. Not the best colour for an ex-soldier to admit a preference for. Therefore, his common insistence that he didn't have a favorite colour.

"The last man I killed was named Gordon," Moriarty said. John looked up, confused for a moment. Then he realized it was a question. For a moment, he thought about simply nodding. After all, it _had_ been phrased as a statement. But he knew that Moriarty wouldn't let that go. So he answered honestly, figuring that Moriarty probably knew already.

"Sean."

"Ah, I thought so. That was a mess. Good shot, though. I had a bet on whether you would kill more of my men after Jeff. That means you aren't the person working through my snipers, though. More work to do, I suppose." He shrugged, a movement that used his entire body, and then took another bite of grilled cheese. "Speaking of work," he said around the mouthful, "I have to go in a couple minutes. I'll allow you one more question. Go crazy." The last word was sung, low and maniacal.

"Why did you ask me to come here tonight? You don't strike me as the type of person that would have dinners for the conversation."

"Having lived with Sherlock, I'm sure you can figure that answer out." It was an invitation, and John hesitated before speaking.

"You're supposed to be dead, so you can't resume your work immediately. You're bored. You needed an experiment, and you decided to use me." His voice rose at the end, making it a question. Moriarty, mouth full, applauded sarcastically. Once he'd swallowed, he spoke.

"Almost there. I needed a _puzzle, _John Watson. Not an experiment; don't sell yourself short. And now I'll ask the last question, and it's the reason you're such a good puzzle. Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else?"

John hesitated, tempted to mention that it was coincidence that had brought him here. But was it, really? He'd been to the next-door shop to drop off Sherlock's things; he would have noticed the café next door. Was it really coincidence that his feet had brought him here, or had some part of him wanted to come? Jim was watching him again with that intense focus that John doubted he'd ever get used to.

"I don't know," he answered finally. Jim nodded, as though something had been confirmed.

"Well, you think about it. Once you have your answer, I'll trade you a secret for it. Something you've been wondering for a while." His smile was a little too wide, and John felt his shoulders tense. The action made him realize how relaxed his posture had been for most of the discussion. "Until then, Doctor Watson," he said, and stood up. He pressed a piece of plastic into John's hand. "8347," he said, and walked out the door.

For a moment, John was confused. But when he looked down at the thing Jim had given him and saw a debit card, he understood. When the waitress came with the bill, he used the debit card and the PIN number 8347. It pinged and went through. John walked out, and tried not to think about where the money had come from. Probably the government budget or something equally ridiculous. John tossed it into an alley, not wanting to get blamed if it was illegal (which it probably was).

* * *

_A/N: Might be a week or so for the next chapter; I'm trying to cut down on the amount of John's monologues. They're stubbornly long, and I don't want to bore you all with his inner essays. This is my first long scene with Jim, and I can't really tell if I got him right. So... review with your opinions! I look forward to hearing from you! _


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Maelstrom**

_"Alice said nothing; she had sat down again with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would ever happen in the natural way again." –Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland._

The moment John got back to the apartment, he collapsed onto the couch, and stared up at the ceiling. _Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else? _It was a good question, a very good question. It was easy to claim that he hadn't meant to go, that it was coincidence that had led John's feet to the very café he'd been trying to forget. But it wasn't really possible, was it?

He thought about what his councilor would say. She'd probably claim that it was a psychological need to face and overcome his worst fear. But, as both Holmes brothers had believed, she was terrible at diagnosing him. Mycroft would probably say it was his need for danger that had brought him there. And perhaps there was an element of truth there. _You're not haunted by the war... You miss it. _Moriarty was war incarnate, changing, unpredictable, vicious, and undeniably dangerous. Was it possible that without Sherlock's chaos, he was just searching for another source of adrenaline?

No, he couldn't believe that about himself. He wasn't just another ex-soldier, addicted to adrenaline. People were more complicated than that. And where did that leave him? Confused. Lost. What was wrong with him? Because something was definitely wrong with him. Why else would he have sat down and had a civil diner with the man who'd killed his best friend? His 'purpose in life,' Moriarty had called him. John looked down at the skull he still held in his left hand, and remembered that Sherlock used to talk to it, before he had John.

He lifted it up, wondering what those hollow eye sockets had seen, what the skull had heard, without ears to listen, or a brain to comprehend. Oh, that was just great, he was descending into poetics. He pulled his thoughts back to practical matters, wondering again if he should take all this to the police. Surely, with enough evidence, he'd be able to convince them? Then John remembered how easily Moriarty had once rigged the jury, and dismissed the entire system. Besides, at best, a jury would lock him away for life. John wanted Moriarty dead. That seemed to be enough, but then John remembered that death _hadn't_ been enough. Death would never be enough.

John wanted to see Moriarty's pride broken. He wanted to see him screaming like the men he'd performed surgery on, when they didn't have time to let the painkillers kick in. Or begging like the men in the interrogation rooms he'd briefly had to doctor in. He momentarily indulged in a fantasy of Moriarty being in one of those rooms, then sighed, telling himself not to go there. That was what Moriarty wanted, for him to fall to his level.

Wasn't it? What exactly did Moriarty want from him? _A puzzle, _he'd said. But what kind of puzzle? John had assumed it was the type that you solve, made of clues and questions that you had to follow to the source. But what about the type that John used to do with Harry, when they were younger? An image, broken apart into pieces, that you had to put back together. John didn't like thinking of himself as an experiment, but a puzzle was possibly even worse.

An experiment was adding one thing to another, standing back, and letting them react. But when solving a puzzle, you were constantly pushing and pulling, trying to get the pieces to go where they should, trying to figure out _why _they went there. John stood up, and put the skull on the table beside the couch. It was doing him no good, thinking like this.

He went into his bedroom, undressed, and collapsed into bed. He'd worry about everything tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.

* * *

John woke up, gasping into the darkness. The waking was familiar by now, hand flying for his gun, panic and heartbeat slowing, receding, being pushed down and locked up. After Afghanistan, nightmares had been normal. He was used to them. In the Baker street flat, they had become more infrequent. Getting back to sleep had been easier when he'd been able to hear Sherlock downstairs, the plinking of violin strings, or the clink and clatter of experiments at 3am.

After Sherlock's death, the nightmares had come back with a vengeance, changing their tune. Now it was usually watching Sherlock fall, listening to him tell John that he'd never been real, that he'd never really liked John at all, or reminding him over and over again that he could have been quicker, that he could have saved him if he'd only been a bit smarter.

Tonight, however, the dream had been an old one, from his time at Baker street. It was the one from the pool, with the bomb vest heavy around him, and the weight of Sherlock's eyes, and the little red sniper dot that he knew was on his chest. In the dream, Moriarty won, and Sherlock died first, dropping to the ground as John watched. Then, usually, Moriarty turned to John and killed him, forcing him to wake up. But this time he had just laughed, patted John on the head, and walked out, leaving John to stare at Sherlock's body on the tiles of the pool deck, puddles of blood slowly dripping into the water, tinting it pink.

John closed his eyes, his breathing loud in the silence, trying to banish the image. He knew why this dream was worse; because it was too close to the truth. He and Moriarty still alive, dancing around each other, and Sherlock dead, blood pooling around his head. John had seen it. He remembered.

How could you assure yourself that it was just a dream, when you'd _seen _it, the dark blood, and the curls limp with it, the stains on the coat, the body twisted like a discarded doll, John had seen it all, it was real, so how could he tell himself that it was just a dream?

He was craving the feel of a gun in his hand, but Moriarty had taken it, and John doubted he'd give it back. He wanted to feel the recoil, hear the sharp crack as the bullet lodged in Moriarty's skull, or at least into a brick wall. Or he wanted a needle in his hand and a wound under his fingers, the red blood on white medical gloves, edges of skin drawn together with black thread, saving another life, cut closing like a speechless mouth.

He buried his face in his hands, cursing himself, cursing Sherlock, cursing Jim Moriarty, and everyone else who had stumbled into his life and changed it somehow, because it all led up to this, a man curled in his bed, craving blood and violence and chaos. _Sick, I'm sick, _John thought, and realized there were tears on his face. They'd probably been there since he woke up.

But more were sliding down his cheeks, and he was trying to stop them, because his throat hurt, and his breath was hitching, and he was so fucking helpless, and the tears kept coming. They were in his mouth, and he could taste the salt, missing the metallic tang of blood, but still a reminder of it, a reminder of the memories, screaming, and John wasn't even sure where he was anymore, some part of his mind realized he was hyperventilating, but it didn't really matter because everything hurt, and the tears wouldn't stop…

There were gunshots outside. John looked up, his eyes wide, already adjusted to the darkness, focusing on the faint outline of the window. His breathing became more even, still gasping, but deeper and no longer erratic. He took advantage of the clarity, and focused on the breathing patterns his therapist had taught him. He sank into the space between the breaths, clearing his mind.

What had he even been panicking over? It wasn't as if his danger complex was anything new. He worked best under pressure, that was why he went to be an army doctor, where life and death were in the balance every day. And after that, he'd been only too happy to go with Sherlock, even when there was only death to be found, corpses to examine instead of people to save. Sherlock… His mind drifted back to memories, and nightmares, and John desperately searched for something else to distract him.

The gunshots outside, that had distracted him earlier. John focused on that memory, wondering what could have happened. Robbery? Gangs? Jealous lover? One side of John's mouth turned up. It all seemed so mundane. After going head-to-head with a criminal mastermind, everything would probably seem boring. The thought of boredom reminded him of Sherlock.

This time the memories were fonder, tinted with exasperation, but they made John smile. He closed his eyes and lay back down, letting his thoughts drift. They finally slowed down enough to let John slip into sleep, and he stayed there until the morning light shone in his window, waking him.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry, this is a 'ideas' chapter. I like them, but I know that not everyone does, so I apologize to the people who were totally bored. There are quite a few chapters like this ahead, because I wrote this story as a character examination, and I really want my readers to have fore-shadowing, because I need John to be thinking a certain way so that I can use it later on. I can't promise that the next chapter will be more plot-filled, but the one after that will be. And I'll post again very soon! I promise!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.**

_"Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way." –Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland._

The sun was streaming through the curtains, warming his face. John shuffled away with a moan, reluctant to leave the calm nothingness of sleep. But it was too late; he was already awake. Grudgingly, he opened his eyes and stared up at the blank white of his ceiling (blank, dull, predictable).

John swung his legs over the side of his bed and rose, keeping his weight on one leg. He got dressed slowly, running over the last two days in his head. He'd been knocked out, drugged, taken out to dinner, questioned, and generally unharmed, all by Moriarty, consulting criminal. Who was supposed to be dead.

The entire series of events seemed rather unbelievable. But the memories were there, refusing to go away. The voice in the graveyard, the questions over dinner, the tears in the middle of the night. It had happened; but now what? Was that it? Was that the game? John knew inside himself that Moriarty wasn't finished with him, but there was a part of him hoping (fearing) that he was.

He wandered off into the kitchen, ate a tasteless bowl of cereal, and sat on the couch. Now what? Normally he would be content to let the day slip away, void of feeling or activity, like the blank walls around him (blank, dull, predictable). But the storm of emotions refused to settle, guilt and anger and nerves and hate, all centered around those dark eyes, that singsong voice. And the last question, still tormenting him. _Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else? _

He needed something to do, something that would require all his focus, and wouldn't let him look away, wouldn't let him remember. He tried to think about what could do that, and suddenly, memories of Sherlock were everywhere. Trying to get him to eat, running through the London alleys, staying up all night trying to solve dubious clues, and impossible puzzles. His eyes locked on John's, Moriarty's voice dancing around them, the bomb vest heavy on John's shoulders. John banished these thoughts entirely.

So, barring insane geniuses, which were exactly what he was trying to forget, what would distract him? Shooting things. Surgery. Running. Sex. Nothing immediately available, aside from sex, but John didn't like one-night stands, as a general rule, and besides, picking someone up took time, unless you had a higher income rate than John.

John pushed himself up, accepting the futility of his thoughts. He could walk, and fill his mind with shop names and license plates, and do his best to focus on the unimportant facts so that he could forget everything else. He headed for the door, grabbing his cane on the way, once again cursing his leg.

* * *

John came back through the door several hours later, shutting it behind him with a slam. He'd spent the day around town, walking, sitting in the park, visiting random stores, doing everything he could to forget about his nightmares, both waking and sleeping. It hadn't worked. Everything reminded him in some way of a case he'd had with Sherlock, and therefore Sherlock's death, and ending at Moriarty. Everything ended with Moriarty, to John's annoyance.

He'd stayed out as long as he could, ignoring the ever-present pain of his leg as it got worse and worse. He didn't want to come back to the (blank, dull, predictable) apartment, as empty and lonely as it was. But the limp had gotten so bad that he couldn't walk, and he'd had to take a rest in a café. He'd been so frustrated with himself that he'd almost lost his temper at the waitress when she brought him the wrong order. The anger was still heavy inside him, demanding some sort of release he could not give it.

He sat down heavily on the couch, and stared up at the ceiling, cursing his leg, his mind, his (blank, dull, predictable) life. He was seriously considering calling Greg, despite his remaining resentment of the man, just to have something to do. As he reached for the phone, he noticed a piece of paper on the table. It was folded in three panels, with nothing written on the outside. John snatched it up and unfolded it, smoothing it out.

Poor Johnny, are you bored? So am I.

I'll be there at 5:30.

Don't bother getting dressed up!

The letter was written in pink ink. John was ready to dismiss this as random but then he remembered their discussion about favorite colours. It was a second message, then, probably a hint about what the evening would hold. Pink; it would be slightly ridiculous, and certainly unconventional, at least by Moriarty's standards.

John set the letter aside, and glanced up at the clock. It was 5:27. He glanced at the piece of paper, then back up at the clock. Waiting. Just waiting. Three minutes left. Two minutes… A knock on the door. John stood and went to answer it, pausing for a moment before opening the door. Jim was standing in the hallway, leaning against one wall.

"John, it's good to see you again. How _are _you? Aren't you going to invite me inside?" For a moment, John simply stared at the man, and then he took a step backwards and made a gesture with his arm, allowing Jim to come inside.

"I thought you said not to get dressed up," he commented, as he took in Jim's outfit. He had only ever seen Moriarty in two getups; the Westwood suits that were the signature touch of his criminal mastermind personality, and the outfit he had used to play Molly's gay boyfriend. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the new clothing.

Jim was wearing dark jeans with black combat boots, and a T-shirt that was dyed with red, yellow, and orange, swirling in an abstract design reminiscent of fire. His hair, usually slicked back, was gelled into little spikes that made him look younger. Even the way he was standing was different, more relaxed. But his eyes had the familiar maniacal gleam, giving him away as the same man who had killed countless people for the sake of boredom.

"I didn't think you'd have anything that would qualify for 'getting dressed up.'" Jim replied easily. "So I brought you a present. Go get changed!" He tossed a bag at John, who caught it instinctively, and then looked up.

"No," John said, and held his breath, waiting to see how Moriarty would react.

The first response was predictable. Narrowed eyes, a single threatening step forwards, fists clenching. A hint of the Moriarty John knew. And then, the next second, Jim was giggling, the sound making John's stomach twist.

"Oh, Johnny boy, I was wondering when you'd try this. You're forgetting who I am…. And who you have left. Mrs. Hudson? Harry Watson? Greg Lestrade? You think that you're alone, but there are still people that you care about. I can still use them to hurt you."

It was a startling way to look at his friends, as weaknesses that Moriarty wouldn't pause to exploit. John's blue eyes met Jim's dark ones, and he realized that this must be how he saw all relationships; gaps in your defense, dangerous weaknesses. Suddenly, John remembered what Jim had said yesterday evening. _"Dangerous thing, to see the world from my perspective." _Yes, John could understand that now. How easy it would be to start seeing people like that, to fall into that way of thinking and never be able to get out.

He turned and went into his bedroom, locking the door behind him and beginning to get undressed. He wasn't worried about leaving Moriarty in his apartment. He'd obviously had a key made, to get the notes into the flat. He turned his thoughts to Moriarty's threats as he pulled on the clothes mechanically. His association with Moriarty was putting his loved ones at risk. He had to stop this, now. How? The situation was completely out of his control. Knowing that Moriarty was threatening his family and friends, he'd come running any time he was called. Anything to keep them safe. But even before the threats, he'd come, hadn't he?

He laced up his left boot, and turned to the mirror. The sight that met him made him clench his fists tightly, memories rushing back. His outfit matched Moriarty's, the dark jeans and the army boots. But instead of Jim's fiery short-sleeved T-shirt, his was long-sleeved and coloured with shades of green. It lacked the sharp edges of army camouflage, but the influence was obvious. Moriarty had chosen the outfit to make John look like a solider, and it worked. He closed his eyes, pushing away the memories, and headed back into the living room.

Moriarty had made himself at home on John's couch, and had his feet up on the coffee table. He turned as John came into the room, and smirked. "Nice outfit, it looks good on you." His voice was low, each word carefully emphasized.

"Thank you," John said ironically, and Moriarty's smirk grew wider. "Where are we going?"

"Crazy," the consulting criminal answered nonsensically, and swung himself up from the couch. "Keep up." And he walked out the door. John stood for a second, working through his thoughts, then dashed after him, unfamiliar boots heavy on the hardwood floor. He paused to shut the door, and then took the steps two at a time, trying to catch up to Jim, who was almost at the ground floor.

John reached the front door, where Jim was waiting, and then the realization kicked in. His cane. He'd forgotten it when he'd gotten up to answer the door. He'd just taken the steps two at a time on his bad leg. Blinking, he shifted his weight, and realized that it didn't hurt at all. He met Jim's eyes, and saw the Cheshire smile spread across the madman's face.

"Forgot the psychosomatic limp again? I tend to have that effect on people," Jim said, and opened the door for John. John held his chin up and walked through, savoring the freedom to walk unhindered. "You passed my car."

John turned and stared. Jim was leaning against a neon green sports car, twirling a key around his finger, his teeth bared in a predatory grin. The image burned itself into John's mind, full of paradoxes and bright colours. After a couple more speechless seconds, John opened his mouth and searched for something to say.

"Right…" he said. "Let's go, then." He walked around to the passenger side, and slid in next to Jim, who was already turning the key in the ignition.

"You may want your seat belt on," the criminal mastermind commented. And that was all the warning John got before they rocketed away from the curb in a screech of tires, the acceleration slamming both their heads back, Jim's laughter filling the car. John scrambled for his seat belt and fought the urge to close his eyes. Instead, he watched in horrified amazement as they broke every traffic law invented in the UK. Red lights were ignored, they drove on the wrong side of the road, somehow didn't hit any pedestrians, and swerved through traffic at alarming speeds. It didn't take long before the sound of sirens filled the air, and a cop on a motorcycle pulled up beside John's window.

"Pull over!" He yelled above the cacophony of horns around them. John looked to Jim, who kept his eyes on the road as he passed John a white business card.

"Give this to him," Moriarty instructed. John handed it through the window, and the policeman glanced at it. His eyes widened, and he handed it back to John with a nod. Then he pulled away, disappearing down a side street. John, curious, looked down at the card, and read the black embossed numbers. '0100101001101.' What did it mean? He turned to Moriarty, mouth open to ask, but he was cut off as Jim slammed the brake down, throwing him forwards violently. "We're here!" He sang, and threw the parking brake down.

John rubbed his chest, certain that he would have a bruise from the seatbelt. He took several deep breaths and glanced over at his companion, who was looking extremely smug.

"You're crazy," John said with conviction. Moriarty turned to him with an shocked expression.

"_Really?_" He gasped, and then laughed manically as he got out. John took another second to recover from his near-death experience, and then followed him. They were parked in a side alley, which was unremarkable. It was dark, dirty, and lined with stone walls. Jim led John over to a door set deep in one of the walls. John shifted uncomfortably as Moriarty knocked out a pattern on the wood. The door opened, and Jim pushed John in ahead of him. Music hit them like a wave, loud and pulsing. The man who had opened the door smiled at them, and handed Moriarty a card.

"Mr. Scott, good to see you again," the doorman said, and gave John a simple nod, which he returned. Jim grabbed his wrist without warning and pulled him into the crowd that took up most of the club. John did his best to keep up, sliding between the dancing bodies and apologizing to the people that Jim simply shoved out of their way. They reached the bar at the side, and sat down beside each other.

"What are we doing here?" John asked, raising his voice above the music. Jim smiled at him and raised a hand, calling the bartender.

"Fighting our mutual boredom," Jim shouted back. "Let's start with some drinks and some questions. We'll see where it goes from there." John didn't feel very happy with this answer, but the bartender came over before he could press farther. "We'll start with two shots of tequila, one gin and tonic, and a sidecar," Moriarty ordered, and handed over his card, which the bartender took one look at, and hurried off to make the drinks.

Jim leaned back, rolling out his neck. John shifted on his stool, slightly uncomfortable. Clubs had never been his scene, and he certainly felt too old to be here now. As though sensing his discomfort, Jim's eyes opened, and he looked at John intently.

"Don't worry, you'll feel better after a few shots," he said. John's eyes widened. _A few shots? _This was looking to be an interesting evening. He was already feeling completely over his head… And it had only just begun.

* * *

_A/N: I think I'll be posting again soon, but I'm sooo changeable. I'm starting another story for my friend, who was upset to learn that this story was never going to be Johnlock. (It's not. Just a heads-up.) So I might be a bit busy with Johnlock fluff for a while. We'll see. Either way, I'll see you around. Don't forget to review, it means a lot to me! _


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Mysteries solved.**

_"The night is fine," the Walrus said._

_"Do you admire the view?_

_It was so kind of you to come!_

_And you are very nice!"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

They were two shots in, and John was already starting to feel better. His nerves and doubt were going away, leaving him with a warm, happy feeling. It mixed perfectly with the tension of being with Moriarty, comfort and danger, being on the edge and welcoming the fall. John thought about Sherlock for a couple seconds, then took another shot, pushing away the memories with the brutal taste of vodka. Jim grinned over at him, and knocked back his own third shot.

"Are you comfortable enough to start the questions?" he shouted over the music. John considered for a moment, and then nodded. Jim gestured for him to follow, and headed over to some tables along one of the walls, within shouting distance of the bar, but separated from the dancers by a glass wall. It was quieter there, and the two men sat down across from each other, both holding their drinks with two hands. Jim took a sip of his sidecar, and ran one finger around the glass. "Well, I asked the final question when we left off. Why don't you start? Answer for an answer, same deal as last time, and no cheating. You ask a question, you answer it. Fully." His voice suggested an 'or else,' but John didn't need to ask what it was. He knew Moriarty would come up with something suitably nasty.

"Umm…" John took another drink as he wondered what to ask. He wasn't quite drunk enough to ask about Moriarty's work, or for details about his childhood. What else was there? "When you were younger, what did you want to do with your life? I mean, most six year olds wouldn't answer 'consulting criminal' if you asked them." Jim smirked, and then looked thoughtful.

"It changed from year to year. When I was five, I wanted to be a firefighter, just like everyone else." His voice was full of disgust for his younger reincarnation. "Then I decided I wanted to be a lawyer, followed by policeman, detective, soldier, prime minister, back to detective, and then I realized I didn't want to work inside the law. After that, my job description kept expanding, until there was really no name for it anymore. Thus; consulting criminal." He spread out his arms, then took another drink. "Your turn."

"You wanted to be a policeman? Or a _detective?_" John asked, his brain attempting to put this together, and failing. He had asked the question because he knew, rationally, that Moriarty couldn't have sprung out of his mother, ready to kill people and bring chaos to the world. But somewhere inside him, that was exactly what he'd thought. Picturing a little Jim Moriarty, determined to be Prime Minister, or a detective, was nearly impossible while looking at the man across from him.

"Yes, that's what I said, come on, Johnny, answer your own question! I don't like waiting." The last word was sung, high and mocking.

"But… what changed your mind?" John wanted to move on, but he felt like a CD stuck in one spot.

"That's a different question, you have to answer this one first," Moriarty answered, so quickly the words seemed to blend into one.

"Ahh…alright. I always wanted to be a doctor, but as I got older, the idea of being a soldier seemed more attractive. Thus; army doctor." He spread out his arms like Moriarty had, then picked up his glass. "You know, until I got shot."

"Right," Jim drawled, then leaned forwards, suddenly intent, like a cat watching its prey. "If you died tomorrow, what would you regret most?"

"That you would still be alive," John answered easily, and then cursed the alcohol. He would have taken longer to answer if the space between his brain and his mouth hadn't suddenly shrunk to nothing. "Your turn."

"Oh, I don't regret things," the other man answered. "Live and never say sorry."

"That's a cheat, you have to pick something," John said.

"But that's the truth," Moriarty protested, and John gave him a narrow look. "Fine, fine. I would regret… dying." He made a general gesture. John sighed, but decided not to push his luck.

"Fine. Then I ask again; what changed your mind? From detective to a criminal mastermind, that's a pretty big leap." The dark-eyed man took another drink, finishing off the glass, then put it down, signaling the bartender for a refill.

"Not as big as you'd think," he said as they waited. "From doctor to soldier, though, _that's _a story I'm interested in hearing." He fell silent, and it became obvious that he wasn't going to say any more until his drink was refilled. John finished off his, and put his glass beside Jim's. Then they waited. The criminal mastermind's fingers started to tap on the table, a sharp 4/4 time that got faster and faster as the seconds dragged on. Finally, he made a motion to get up, anger clear in the lines of his body.

"Jim," John said, and the dark eyes turned to him. John saw the insanity there and met it easily, his blue eyes shining under the lights. Slowly, Jim relaxed back into his seat, eyes never leaving John's. A smile spread across his face, and he leaned back, all the angry tension falling away from him in a moment.

"That's the first time you called me that. I could tell that the woman was using drugs because of the obvious marks on her arms. I knew _what _she was using because I had been there for a while, and was able to observe the progression of her withdrawal symptoms. The latest needle mark was a day old, and the symptoms were characteristic of cocaine. The fact that she was feeling such obvious effects so soon meant that she was using a lot. The doses were nearing the stage where she'd overdose soon, and she was smart enough to know it, so instead of using cocaine, she would switch to methamphetamines. It's the logical step, at least, to a drug addict's mind."

When Moriarty had started talking, John had been extremely confused. What woman? Why was he telling him this? And then he'd realized he was referring to last night's dinner, and his deductions about the waitress. He'd asked how he'd known, and Jim had told him that he had to do something 'good' to get one of his secrets. Apparently, using his first name had been enough to get one piece of the puzzle.

"Amazing," John said automatically, then winced. He wasn't with Sherlock, and he shouldn't be _encouraging _the criminal mastermind. There was silence, as he stared down at his drink. He expected Moriarty to have that Cheshire smile when he looked up again, but he wasn't smiling at all. He was looking at John with something like genuine surprise on his face, his dark eyes fixed on John's lighter ones. "Well, it was," John said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence

"That's not what people usually say," Jim commented. John fought the urge to laugh, remembering this conversation with Sherlock on their first day together.

"What do they usually say?" he asked, half because that was what he'd said then, and half because he was genuinely curious.

"Nothing, they just stare at me in mute horror, or something like that." Jim's smile was wide and easy, his voice matter-of-fact. John didn't doubt that he was telling the truth. "You're really a breath of fresh air, Johnny boy." He took in a deep breath and blew it out in a giggle, probably illustrating his point in his usual, disturbing way. The refills arrived, the bartender having noticed John's empty glass, and taking it upon himself to replace it.

"Sorry for the wait," the man delivering them said.

"Ah, yes, I'd normally kill you for it, but I'm in a good mood tonight," Jim said, his voice joking. The other man smiled and hurried off, back to the bar. "It's funny how often you can tell the truth and get away with it, simply because no one believes you," the criminal mastermind commented, before taking a drink. John nodded absent-mindedly. "On that note, let's hear a story," Jim said. John picked up his drink and focused, as Moriarty began to talk.

"Once upon a time, there was a little twelve year old named James. And James was not a normal boy. Everyone knew it, and everyone _hated _it." His voice settled into a singsong fairy-tale cadence, as though he were telling a classic tale to a group of five year olds. "Now, James had always been very interested in crime. He wanted to be a detective, and save the world from big, bad criminals, just like a superhero. People would come to him and say 'Oh, James, people are being killed, and we need your help!' And then he would save them, and they would _worship _the ground he walked on." He paused to take a drink, and then continued.

"One day, little James decided he'd had enough of reading crime books, and listening to the news. He wanted to start _helping. _So when he saw a new murder on the telly, he shrugged on his coat and made his way to the crime scene, all on his own. He slipped through the police tape, unnoticed, and went to look at the body. He looked, and he _saw _things, things he had trained himself to see and use. He knew that it was the brother who'd done it. But… When James tried to pass on the information, _no one _would listen to him. He was only twelve years old, after all."

John was completely swept into the tale, a picture of the little genius standing over the body caught in his mind. Moriarty's black eyes would have seemed even larger in his young face, and his hair would have been less meticulously groomed. It would have blown about in the wind, stray locks falling into his face.

"Our little hero was very upset about this. He started spreading around the information, hoping _someone _would listen. He was so proud, because he'd solved a _real life crime_!" He said the words with all the puffed up importance of a young child. "There was one boy in his class," he continued, voice dropping solemnly, "whose name was Carl. And Carl's father was on the police force, in charge of the same case James had solved. And Carl wasn't happy that this boy, only one year older than him, had figured out the case that his father couldn't."

John suddenly remembered the Carl Powers case, that had set Sherlock on his path. Was it the same Carl? Had he really been the first person that Moriarty killed? Moriarty's first kill, Sherlock's first case? The irony was overwhelmed by a sense of rightness. Their paths overlapped in so many ways that it all seemed perfectly natural, really.

"So Carl called on all his friends, younger and older, and he said to them 'James is _too smart, _and we need to teach him a lesson.' And all his friends, they descended like vultures, and they made little James's life _very _bad. James looked up and saw Carl laughing at him, and he decided that if this was what being a detective meant, he didn't want to be one. If people weren't going to respect him because he was saving them, well, then, they could respect him because he would kill them otherwise."

Jim's smile was wide, sharp, and completely insincere. "There were other children that Carl was laughing at, and James watched, and he asked them to help him. They were happy to, happy to rally behind him and each act out their parts. One of them got the paralyzing agent, the other one made sure he was Carl's roommate when they made a trip to London. And the plan was carried out, each child doing one thing, so that none of them felt entirely responsible. Except for Jim, who watched from behind them, and smiled, because he was the one who had told them all what to do, and he was the one that had gathered them together. And that was when he knew that this was what he wanted to do. So… that was the story of 'How James Moriarty became a criminal mastermind.' Now let's hear 'How John Watson became a queen's killer.' Take it away, Johnny."

There was a long silence, during which John simple stared at Moriarty, and the dark-haired man stared back, waiting. John's mind was having a hard time with the story, perhaps because of the alcohol, but it was more than that. The story made sense, too much sense. He could see the little boy with huge black eyes, echoed in the man across from him. He could see the whole story, and it fit with Jim so well that it didn't seem right. Jim simply didn't fit together, he didn't make sense. John could never understand him. So why could he understand him now? Why did it all suddenly fit together? How could anything make sense when Moriarty was involved?

"I…" John started, then stopped, still boggling. Moriarty had been young once. He'd wanted to be a _detective. _He was really just one step away from Sherlock. John paused, and thought about that again. Were they really that close to each other? Surely not. But he thought about the disgust Sherlock expressed for ordinary people, the complete lack of regard he showed for the emotions of the people around him, and the excitement he showed when there was a new murder. Maybe they _were _that close. After all, Sherlock hadn't been listened to on the Carl Powers case, either. If he had never found Lestrade, and actually been noticed, where would he have ended up? If things were different, could it be Jim solving the crimes right now, and Sherlock committing them? Where would John be in that universe? If Sherlock were on the other side of the law, would John have stood by him? He didn't know the answer, and that scared him.

"Oh my, was that too much for your brain?" Moriarty asked in a concerned tone. "You'd better have a shot." He signaled for it, and this time, the server responded quickly. Maybe he hadn't been quite so clueless as John had assumed. He slid it across to John, who knocked it back with fierce abandon. The possibilities, memories, thoughts, they were all knocked out of his head by the burning taste of alcohol.

"Thanks," he said to Jim, and that word was probably a sign that he had drunk too much.

"You're welcome," came the reply, which startled John all over again with its normalcy. "Now, how about that story, Johnny? How did _you _go from saving people to killing them?"

"I never stopped being a doctor," John protested immediately. "I just… expanded my repertoire."

"Yes, yes. And why did you do such a thing?"

"I…" John thought back on his childhood, trying to pinpoint the time when he'd decided to be a soldier. What had prompted his decision, to leave his home for the chaos of war?

"I was in college, studying to be a surgeon," John began. "I had a girlfriend, and a part-time job, and no money whatsoever. Typical medical student. I guess at some point, I started looking around at the adults I knew, and I realized they all had the same life. Worked, came home, ate dinner, interacted with family, watched the telly, went to bed. There were people who were happy living like that, my dad being one of them. And there were people who weren't, who just got trapped in it, like my mom. I knew that I didn't want to end up like her, so I took a path as far away from that as I could. I joined the army."

"You got trapped in it anyways, after you got shot," Moriarty commented.

"I almost did. I almost got dragged into that godawful blankness, but Sherlock saved me. He cured my leg, dragged me along on ridiculous chases, never let me work a full shift at the clinic without some sort of interruption. I was never bored when I was with him."

"Are you bored now?" Jim asked, and John's eyes snapped to him, trying to gauge his expression. Curious, open, slightly too innocent. What sort of question was that? It was hard to think, through the alcohol, and the intoxication of dangerous company.

"Of course not," John answered finally. How could he be? He was sitting across from a criminal mastermind, the most dangerous man in London (perhaps excluding Mycroft). Boredom was about the farthest thing from what he was feeling.

"Neither am I. I was bored all day, even though I was working. It was a mundane job, knocking off an ex-husband, making it look like an accident. I feel uninspired without a counterpart, someone actually on my level. The police don't have a chance of catching me, and without some sort of risk, everything is so dull. And somehow, I don't feel bored now. Why? Why, Johnny, what about your mundane, average brain interests me? What enables you, of all people, Sherlock's little pet, to puzzle me? Why _you?_" He spat the words, voice rising to a shout, eyes on fire.

John just stared. He couldn't really think right now. His thoughts were like syrup, slow and sticky. Jim tossed back the rest of his drink, and then stood, his movements only slightly affected by the alcohol. To be fair, he'd had one less shot than John. And John had always tried to stay away from actually getting drunk, mindful that alcoholism ran in the family. As such, his tolerance was painfully low, and he wasn't entirely sure that he was thinking straight right now.

"That's it, I'm done this whole deep questioning thing, I'm taking you home. Come on, get up, get back in the car.  
"You're not driving like this," John had the presence of mind to say. He remembered the earlier terrifying trip, and pictured a _drunk _Jim behind the wheel.

"I'll drive nicely this time, okay? I _promise,_" said Moriarty, crossing his heart. "And I don't break my promises, Johnny. Ever." John hesitated, wondering if he should really trust a consulting criminal. Then he remembered that he had left his wallet in his pants at home, which meant he had no money for a cab. So he really had no choice.

"Okay, fine, let's go," he said. Jim ordered two more shots, which they knocked back in silence. Then they made their way back through the dancers, walking close together through the crush of bodies, and out the back door into the alley. John breathed in the fresh air, tilting his face up to look at the stars. They were like little pinpricks in a black blanket, letting the light through. Pretty, and so far away. When his eyes drifted down to earth, Jim was staring at him from his place beside the car. "What?" he asked, half-defensive, half-curious.

"You're drunk," the other man commented. "It's interesting."

"You're drunk too, you're human. Jim." John tacked it onto the end because it felt important to say. He was rewarded with a smile that wasn't a smirk, and wasn't uncomfortably wide. It looked mostly normal, actually. Sort of sincere. Wow, that was a strange word; sincere. Sincere, sincere, sincere…

"I am, but not that badly. Can you even walk over here?" John straightened his shoulders and took a step towards the car, defiant and steady. One foot, one step, other foot, step again. He reached the car, and leaned against the passenger door next to Jim.

"Ha. Take that. You can kill people with one text, but I can _walk._" They both laughed, John's giggle a perfect counterpart for Jim's low, dark chuckle.

"Get in the car," Jim ordered, and John did what he was told, sliding into the seat and putting on his seat belt. He was still uncertain about letting Jim drive while under the influence of alcohol. But he didn't have much of a choice, and Moriarty _had _promised to drive nicely…

They pulled out of the alley slowly, and onto the main road. The drive home was quiet. They didn't exceed the speed limit, they stopped at all the red lights, and they didn't cut anyone off. Jim was laughing quietly to himself all the way home, while John stared out the window at the lights going by and hoped he wasn't going to throw up.

A little while later, they pulled into the driveway in front of the building where John lived.

"I'll see you around, John," Moriarty commented.

"I know," John responded, and stumbled out of the car.

"Sweet dreams!" Jim singsonged, and blew a kiss out the window after him. He drove off, the electric green sports car disappearing into traffic in a blur. Apparently, the 'driving nicely' rule was off once John was out of the car.

John turned and started up the stairs, feeling worse and worse as he climbed. His vision was blurry, his leg hurt, his balance was off, and his stomach was rolling. Finally, he reached his door, and had to bend down to get the spare key. It took him several tries to get the key lined up with the lock, because his vision was doing this funny doubled thing, and the key kept changing places.

He got inside after a little bit of trouble, and ran straight to the bathroom to throw up. That seemed to make things better, so he stumbled over to his bedroom, stripping off his jeans and shirt, and fell into bed wearing only his pants. Sleep swept over him almost immediately.

* * *

_A/N: Hi, I'm back, sorry about the wait. There should be less of a gap between chapters from here on in. I was on vacation... But you probably don't want excuses. Don't forget to review, don't forget to be awesome!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Morning.**

_"This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear; she got up in great disgust, and walked off; neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half-hoping that they would call after her."_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

His head hurt. It was an odd sort of pain, a constant background ache. It seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, rising and fading like waves on a shore. Its inexorable rhythm made it difficult to think about anything else. John took a deep breath and then let it out quietly, readying himself to open his eyes. He cracked open his left eyelid, and quickly closed it again. Rays of sunlight had invaded his flat, their stupid _brightness _sending pain through his skull.

Who had invented hangovers? And why did anyone drink? John thought about Harry for a moment, tried to shake his head, but aborted the movement because it hurt too much. He really couldn't remember what had possessed him to take all those shots. Blame it on Moriarty. Suddenly, the memories came rushing back.

Wait.

Hang on.

That actually happened?

The unreality of the entire evening hit him with a staggering force. It had all seemed so natural last night. Like a dreamer, he hadn't questioned the strange things that were happening around him. But now everything seemed completely far-fetched, and even _he _was having a hard time believing it, despite the proof all around him. His leg didn't hurt. His head hurt enough for both of them. If he opened his eyes, he'd probably see the clothes that Moriarty had forced him into, laying where he'd thrown them before falling into bed. And the impossible memories were there, blurry with alcohol, but none of them completely gone, which was good.

Moriarty, wearing black jeans and a flame coloured T-shirt, lounging on his couch. Threatening his family and his friends. Forgetting his cane when he followed the madman. The electric green car. The policeman, who had been turned away by a simple series of numbers. The cocktails, the questions, the stories, the shots. The quiet, reasonable drive home, which somehow seemed more insane than the rest of the night.

John slowly pushed himself up to sitting, groaning. This was why he didn't get drunk. A half-remembered night of freedom wasn't worth the full day of headaches and nausea that followed.

Slowly, his eyes opened, and sure enough, there were the jeans and the green shirt he had worn yesterday. In his mind's eye, he could see Moriarty in the matching outfit, and it seemed like a dream. He was so used to the Westwood suits and slicked-back hair that they seemed to be a part of Moriarty, something he couldn't change. Seeing him in different clothes made everything different, it made him seem more human, somehow.

It was like watching him eat. It was unreal because Moriarty was supposed to be unreal, a 2D villain whose only purpose was to burn the heart out of Sherlock. But, as John had said, things like that just don't happen in real life. People don't have arch-enemies, and no one is 2 dimensional. It made him picture other things, like Moriarty sleeping, or reading a book, or brushing his teeth. Jim Moriarty brushing his teeth in the morning, now _there _was an image that seemed unreal.

But somehow, all of these things were becoming more believable. Two months ago, thinking about any of this would be impossible, but when John had watched him eat a grilled cheese, or lounging on a couch in a T-shirt, everything started to be rather unstable. Anything could happen, anything at all. A sudden image hit John, a jumbled mess of memories and dreams, a collage of what had happened last time life became unstable.

Blood on the sidewalk and streaking pale cheeks, blank eyes and a limp hand. A hand that he had been holding only the day before, as they ran down the street and around the corner. It had been warm then, fingers wrapped around his and not letting go. "Take my hand," that familiar voice, never forgotten and always present in the back of John's mind. But when the morning light had found them on the pavement, the same fingers had been limp and useless, the hand cooling in the wind, and the wrist had no pulse. John had felt for it, he hadn't let go until he was certain that there was nothing there, and Sherlock Holmes was dead.

It was Moriarty's fault. Sherlock hadn't been a fraud, John knew that, he'd been too real for anyone to believe, too real for the world to accept. In some ways it had been Moriarty that was the fraud, playing a perfect villain to lure Sherlock in, and then over the edge of the hospital roof, somehow, _somehow. _He'd killed Sherlock, John's Sherlock, the man who had saved his life in so many ways, who had swept in the door with his bloody dramatic coat and flipped his life around, and it was true, it didn't matter if the earth went around the sun, because John's life had revolved around Sherlock, and that had taken that away from him.

What was he doing? Going out to lunch, going out _clubbing _with Moriarty, criminal mastermind and murderer of Sherlock Holmes? Jim, the man with dark eyes, and a fascinating mind, and exaggerated expressions, and a dangerous laugh, he _wasn't real. _Moriarty, in the suits, with his snipers, the black eyes and the mocking sing-song voice, _he _was the real one, and he had killed Sherlock. How could John have forgotten that, pushed it aside as he was caught up in the game he was playing?

His phone went off, interrupting his thoughts. He reached out and grabbed it from its place on his bedside table, wincing at the brightness of the screen. Finally, he could read the new text, from an unknown number.

Drink some orange juice and have a shower. Helps the hangover.

JM

John grimaced at the screen. He felt disgusted by himself, by the memories, ashamed of what he'd become. How could he have been so easily taken into Moriarty's games? You can take a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. John had drunk, and this was the consequence.

And yet, there was still the urge to smile at the text. A criminal mastermind, sending him hangover advice. How strange could his life get? His phone vibrated in his hand, a new text popping up on-screen.

Same time tomorrow?

JM

John hesitated, thinking about his options. He could say no, but Moriarty had threatened his sister last time he'd refused anything he'd asked. As little as he liked Harry, she certainly didn't deserve to die, and John hated having death on his hands. But if he said yes, then he would be pulled back into the dream world, back into the deadly game he had just cursed himself for joining. And the more time he spent with Moriarty, the more he started to see him as human, and that was the biggest mistake he could make. "Moriarty is not a man. He is a spider." A spider, a puppeteer, making John dance for him. That's all this was to him, a show to occupy his time.

Would you kill anyone if I said no?

No one that you'd hear about.

JM

The reply came almost immediately, and John stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out what it meant. If someone he knew was killed, he would hear about it, so they were safe. And if there was a big explosion or something, he'd see it on the news. After that, it was an easy decision.

Then no. Leave me alone.

As you wish.

JM

After the unexpected Princess Bride quote, there was nothing. John put the phone aside, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Was it really over? Would Moriarty really leave him alone? Could it really be that easy? Only time could tell, and John would do his best to be patient. In the meantime, he walked out into the kitchen to get himself a glass of orange juice.

* * *

_A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry I took so long to update. I had around 90 pages of this story written, and then it all got deleted in a black-out. It took me a while to build up the courage to start writing it again. Ah, well. I learned my lesson the hard way; if you have a really long story, save it to more than one computer/memory stick!_

_Also, I figured I'd take this opportunity to answer some common questions I've been getting in the reviews, from PMs, and from friends who are reading this story. _Will Sherlock be in this story? _Yes, he will, but not for quite a while. _Will this be Johniarty? _I honestly have no clue. I'm one of those weird authors who has no control over her characters. I know the main plot, but I don't know where their relationship is really going. _Will there be Johnlock? _I've already answered this one, but someone asked it again, so I'll answer it again! Unfortunately not. There will be echoes of it, and John and Sherlock will end up on good terms, but they won't be getting together. I do have a Johnlock story on my author page, but this is not it. _

_That's all for now. Thanks for all the reviews, you really have no clue how happy they make me. I apologize for the super long author's note, and I'll be posting the next chapter with this one, so read on and enjoy! See you around. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Misery.**

_"If that there King was to wake," added Tweedledum, "you'd go out—bang!—Just like a candle."_

_-Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass._

Five days had passed, since his last visit with Moriarty. Five long days of glancing over his shoulder and checking his phone obsessively, looking around the flat for notes and half-expecting a knock on the door.

There was nothing.

No glimpses of someone watching him. Sometimes the CCTV cameras turned as he went past, but that was probably just Mycroft checking up on him. No texts or phone calls from unknown numbers. No unexpected visitors. Life was (dull, blank, predictable) normal, thankfully. Every day without a sign of Moriarty was a (half) relief.

John sat on his couch, staring at the texts that Moriarty had sent him, a four-minute exchange that had made him more alone than ever. Things in life were like that. They happened so quickly, like missing a step and realizing that you're going to fall. There's really no time from the thought to the impact, just a blur or movement and then it's a memory.

The minutes passed like the hours, and the hours passed like the days, like ripples in a pond, fading once they reached the edges, unimportant and unremembered. John was the surface of the water, floating quietly without the wind to move him. Tranquil, peaceful, quiet (dull, blank, predictable).

* * *

_Drip, drip, drip. _It was days later. The tap was leaking again, and John didn't care. He had nothing to do today, no work on Sundays, no friends, and no urge to go out, knowing that he would be looking around for black eyes… or dark, curling hair. Dreading the constant rising hope and then falling disappointment, he had decided that it was safer to stay here and stare at the blank television, and listen to the sound of water hitting the metal sink. Thwak. Thwak. Thwak. One, and another, and another. Counting off the seconds of John's life.

He was trying not to think of Sherlock, and failing. In the blank emptiness, the memories came waltzing in, filling the space with a time when there was colour in the world. All John could do was close his eyes, and find himself back at 221B.

He remembered the time that Sherlock and he had baked a cake together. It had been John's idea, of course, but Sherlock had agreed more readily than expected, because he had been bored. The two of them had mixed the cake, folded it, poured it, baked it, and iced it. It had been a little burned on the bottom, and the icing was too thick to spread very well, but they had eaten it anyways.

John smiled. He'd gotten Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, to eat chocolate cake. He drew up the image that he'd promised never to forget, a mental snapshot of Sherlock looking up at him from his chair, with chocolate icing on his nose. He'd laughed long and hard, and resisted the urge to kiss it off. That would have been not-good, to borrow a term from Sherlock himself.

Oh, there it was again, the burning at the back of his throat, so familiar in every time of his life except the years before he knew about the world, and the time he spent with Sherlock. His eyes were hurting, too, but this time he didn't want to cry, so he pushed back the tears, and put his hands over his eyes. Things he never told Sherlock, things he wouldn't tell his councilor, things he would never say again, echoed in his mind.

_I love you. _Sherlock, with icing on his nose and a confused expression on his face, unsure of why John was laughing so much. _I love you. _Sherlock in a good mood after a case, playing the violin and waking John up. John had listened, and realized that he was playing the latest case, the murder and the mystery and the solution, and _they_ were in the music, their friendship, running together through the notes. _I love you. _John had to bite it down sometimes, when the words threatened to burst out of him. When Sherlock gave a little smile, or grabbed John's shoulders, or fell asleep on the couch after being awake for nine days. _I love you. _

And now he'd never say those words, and that was final, because Sherlock was dead (and Moriarty was alive). Why _Moriarty? _Who had decided that one of them should die, and the other one live? How could the world justify a consulting criminal in the world, without his counterpart?

Moriarty had been smarter. He had fought death, he had made a plan, and he had won. Against death, against Sherlock, against the whole world. And who was left to challenge him? John? A wave of bitterness surged up inside him, drowning the fond memories. And where was Sherlock when he was needed? Dead? He hadn't fought, not like Moriarty, he'd stood there and made his pretty little speech, then stepped of the edge willingly. _Why? _What could make Sherlock do that?

A consulting detective and a consulting criminal meet on the roof of a hospital. (It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Maybe it is.) They talk, or something. Moriarty shoots himself in the head (but doesn't really). Sherlock makes a speech about being a fraud, then jumps off the building, but it doesn't. Make. Sense!

Moriarty shot himself so that he could disappear, that was clear enough. People were getting too close to him, and he probably didn't want to live out the rest of his life as boring Richard Brooks. That was easy, that made sense. John had never thought he'd see the day that Moriarty made sense to him, and Sherlock didn't, but that day was now.

Sherlock had jumped. Why? Maybe they had threatened someone if he didn't do it. Mrs. Hudson? Him? No, that didn't make sense. Sherlock was willing to sacrifice people. He'd made that clear at the pool, where he had been prepared to blow all three of them sky-high to stop Moriarty. So what? Why? Sherlock would never commit suicide, John knew him well enough to say that, and even if he did, why would he make the speech about being a fraud if he wasn't? No one could have forced him to say those things, unless his phone was being monitored. And even then, what could 'they' have done? He was already preparing to jump off a building.

It all made no sense, and it was just making John's head hurt. He leaned back against the arm of the couch, and sighed. The bottom line was that Moriarty had won, and Sherlock had stepped off the edge of that building without fighting. And there was the bitterness again, a sudden resentment. Sherlock knew how important he was to John, he didn't have the _right _to ruin both their lives like this!

There were people dying, all over London. When Sherlock had become famous, crime rates had dropped, because everyone knew that if they got too much attention, killed too many people, made their crimes too interesting, they could have Sherlock Holmes on their case, the consulting detective that always found the criminals. And now they were back again, serial killers all over Britain finally daring to poke their heads up. And the police, as Sherlock had always said, were useless, and if only the consulting detective were here, lives could be saved that had been lost to the criminals the police were unable to catch.

No matter what Sherlock had been threatened with, there were more important things. Life and death. Friendship. Love. His work, what had happened to his all-important work? Tossed aside like his cell phone when he jumped off the building.

_Drip. Drip. Drip. _ Moriarty was alive, but he wasn't John's problem anymore. Sherlock was dead, and that had stopped mattering. Dull, blank, empty life. Did it matter who had been there before, or who had left? All that was left was nothingness, in all directions. And an echo of three words that John would never say. And the dripping of the tap. _Drip. Drip. Drip. _

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_A/N: Tell me what you thought, tell me if you want more chapters! Thanks for the reviews and follows, sorry for the angst, and I'll see you next time. _


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Moran.**

_"I know you are a friend," the little voice went on. "An old friend and a dear friend. And I know you won't hurt me…"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass._

Life went on.

It was something John had noticed many times before. No matter how blank you felt, days kept passing, and people kept living their lives. He was a leaf in the river, unmoving but pulled along by the current, everything around him changing while he stayed the same. It was rather unnerving.

Sarah had found a new boyfriend. She'd cut her hair and started wearing dark lipstick. She smiled a lot more. Things were changing for her, and the world was bright and alive.

It had been twelve days since John's last outing with Moriarty, but it could have been a day, or a year. Everything was dead, wasn't that funny? He hadn't realized how much everything depended on Sherlock. Without him, it seemed like there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. The closest thing John had had to a friend since Sherlock's death was Sarah, with their strictly work-only relationship. Or, dare he think it, Moriarty.

And he really didn't want to think about that anymore! He didn't want to think about anything. Not Sarah's new chance at escape, not that he might actually be _missing _Moriarty, not that Sherlock was dead, not the things he never said, he didn't want to think, he wanted to forget.

So John did the only reasonable thing. He decided to get drunk.

That evening found him at a pub, sliding onto a stool and taking a glance around the left side of the bar as he ordered his drink. He absentmindedly picked out the married people, the ones having an affair, the ones looking for a pickup, and other little details he'd learned from Sherlock, or Sherlock's notes.

He wondered how many drinks it would take before Sherlock's voice stopped pointing out all the little things he was missing at the back of his mind. John had stopped fighting it and simply left it to chatter on in the back of his head, a constant litany of criticism through his daily life. He picked up the glass the bartender set in front of him and took a drink.

"John?" He turned automatically, knowing it probably wasn't him. The curse of having a common name; someone's always calling you, or talking about you. He was fully prepared for the person to be facing the other way, calling over their friend or something like that. But when his eyes met the other man's, there was an instant flare of recognition.

"_Sebastian?"_ He asked, unbelieving. "You… But we thought you were dead. They told us you were dead. What…" he was unable to finish, and settled for simply staring at his old army mate, who had been declared missing in action several years ago.

"I know, I'm sorry. I would have written you, but…" Sebastian trailed off. "I'm not sure how much I can say. I was picked out by a sort of Secret Service thing, and I had to disappear to join them. It seemed like the best option, at the time."

"Jesus," John said softly, looking his friend up and down. Yes, he was definitely alive, definitely Sebastian Moran. "Are you going to be in trouble for talking to me now?" John wanted to catch up, but not if it meant being kidnapped and questioned by another government agent, or getting Sebastian in trouble.

"As long as you don't go telling everyone I'm alive, we should be fine. He trusts me, and I can trust you, right?" John took note of the fact that he was working for a single person. Second-in-command? Sebastian had been Captain before John, he was good in a command position.

"Yeah, sure, of course. So…" John faltered, unsure of what to ask. "You're alive. I guess I can't ask about your work, but what have you been doing with yourself otherwise?"

"Hmm. Well, I was in America for a year or so. I just got back a few months ago, I'm living in London now. What else, what else. I love my work, don't get much free time, live alone in an apartment paid for by my work, my only friends are my coworkers. Not much of a life, really. But the last time I saw you, you were all lined up for a captaincy. What happened?"

"I did get the captaincy," John said. "Then I got shot." He gave Sebastian the full story that he only told to the people he trusted. He cut off the story when he got back to London, not wanting to revisit Sherlock in any way right now. Sebastian didn't ask, and the conversation turned to reminiscing. Old exploits, truly horrible camp spots, other old army mates, and singing 80s songs behind the lines while they waited.

They had moved to a booth about an hour ago, and were sharing nachos, when Sebastian's phone went off with the distinctive opening notes of Beethoven's fifth symphony. John raised his eyebrows and Sebastian checked the screen. He grimaced, then looked up at John.

"That would be my boss."

"Nice ringtone." They shared a grin, then Sebastian gave an apologetic expression.

"My job has really weird hours, I'm pretty much always on-call. I've got to go. But hey, this has been great. We could get another round sometime on me. I could use a friend that's outside of my work. Gives me a little break, you know?"

"Sounds great." They set up a time and place, exchanged cell phone numbers. Then Sebastian left, John halfheartedly finished the nachos, and went home mostly sober. What a coincidence, to meet his old friend there like that! And, for Christ's sake, how many people were going to end up coming back from the dead? John was half-expecting to come home and find Sherlock sitting in his flat, demanding nicotine patches. But no, he didn't think about that, because he'd stopped hoping for that a long time ago. Because when he allowed himself to think about that, the hope came back, and that meant the tears, every time he came home and no one was there. So he pushed the thought to the back of his mind, and didn't allow himself to consider the possibility of Sherlock still being out there somewhere. A shame, really. It could have saved him a lot of trouble later on.

Oooo000oooO

Things weren't perfect. But then again, they rarely were.

There were still long stretches of staring into space and wondering what could have been. Still boring work at the clinic, and the damnable (blank, dull, predictable) routine. John still had to force a smile and tell Sarah that he was so happy for her, when he found out she was pregnant. She was settling down into family life, something John would never do. He was still watching the world outside go by, blank, dull, predictable, useless.

But all of that was made better by the evenings spent with Sebastian, at a different bar each time. They didn't talk about Sebastian's work, or John's more recent past, but they talked about books, movies, ex-girlfriends and John's work, so the time passed quickly.

As it turned out, Sebastian had alcohol restrictions on him because of his job. Apparently the higher-ups were concerned about their workers getting drunk and spilling high-security secrets. Seemed like paranoia to John, but he wasn't getting drunk alone and embarrassing himself, so they measured out their drinks together, drawing out their beers for as long as possible.

John had to relearn his friend, in some ways, catching up with who he was. They were both different from who they'd been in their middle twenties when they had fought together. Sebastian was no longer the laughing, easy-going captain that had been so loved by his soldiers. He was a little bit hardened now, in a way even the war hadn't managed. John was no longer the man who had volunteered as a front-line doctor, running in with the soldiers that carried guns and increasing his chance of injury. It had been better than staying behind and waiting for the men to be brought back to him, just listening to the screams and gunfire, so close yet far away.

So he learned about Sebastian in bits and pieces, almost never asking direct questions (because that reminded him of question games, deals with the devil, black eyes and a Cheshire smile.) Moran was 32, his favorite color was gold, he still liked reading old sci-fi novels, and his work took up most of his life. His boss was eccentric, paranoid, demanding, a tad unhinged, and had a good sense of humor.

Sebastian sometimes came back with non-specific stories about him, and they would both laugh over them. He must be the second-in-command because of the familiarity in the way he talked about his nameless boss, and the commonness of the texts from him, which always ended their little meetings.

John wasn't sure what Sebastian was learning about him, but he was sure it wasn't awfully interesting. His life, after all, was pretty (blank, dull, predictable) boring. But that didn't matter, because Sebastian feigned interest, and although there were awkward lulls in the conversation, they were eventually filled, and life went on.

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_A/N: Hello. Listen, I've got a question. Is there anyone still reading this? Because I got a grand total of... 0 reviews for the last two chapters! I love writing, I love posting my writing, but if no one is reading it, then it may as well just sit around on my laptop unedited. Even if there's ONE PERSON who wants me to keep writing, I'll do it. But if no one cares one way or another, well... _

_I hope to see you next time. Have good days, or lives, or whatever!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Medical Miracles.**

_"In another moment down went Alice (into the rabbit hole) after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again."_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

"What's going on?" Sebastian asked as he slid into the seat across from John. They were in a bar near John's childhood home, and there was a fight going on in the middle of the room that was the subject of Sebastian's inquiry.

"I think the skinny one looked at the other man's girlfriend," John offered, who hadn't really been paying attention to the fight. People who were obviously watching were more likely to be pulled into it. Sebastian rolled his eyes at the mundane problems of drunken men, and took another sip of his beer. That was when the now-familiar ringtone rang out, and Sebastian took out his phone reluctantly. His eyes widened at whatever text his boss had just sent him, and John had to hold himself back from asking what it was.

"I'll be right back," he said, and got up. John waved a hand, signaling that it was fine (it's all fine). But once Sebastian turned his back, he let his face fall into a thoughtful frown. Usually a text from the mysterious boss would send his friend running for his work. And they'd never gotten any sort of reaction, aside from an apologetic grimace. Something was different, but what? John decided to just pay the bill and follow Sebastian. He could ask him what was going on, even if he couldn't get an answer.

So he slipped outside a few seconds later, looking around, and seeing Sebastian a ways away, talking on his phone animatedly. He headed towards him, catching the end of the conversation on Sebastian's side.

"Absolutely. With my life. Yes. I don't know. Yes." Sebastian noticed John coming up beside him. He gave him a warning look, and held up a finger in the universal 'give me a second' sign. John backed off, still in hearing distance, but not close enough to hear anything of the man on the other side of the phone call. "I will. Two minutes, then around ten. Yeah, me too. Okay." Then he hung up, and looked at John.

It was an odd sort of look. Not the sort you'd give a friend, but one you'd give a competitor, a sweeping look up and down, an evaluation. John just stood there through it. Although it was invasive, it lacked the feeling that your entire life story was being read in your posture, so it was mild in John's books. When his friend met his eyes, John raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"It was my boss," Sebastian said unnecessarily. "There's been a situation."

"I've already paid the bill," John said, anticipating his friend's next request to leave. "We can see each other the same time next week? I'll text you the-"

"No, this time is a bit different, and I've got to talk fast, because from what I hear, it's life or death. Our doctor's been shot, and there were others hurt in the same incident. We need a good doctor, willing to work under bad conditions, who can keep a secret." The words hung in the air, and Sebastian's measuring look suddenly made sense. "I recommended you. You saved my life, I believe you can save these people as well."

"I…" John faltered. He didn't really know anything about the situation, and Sebastian was being frustratingly vague. But there were lives on the line, and no matter what, John was a doctor, first and foremost. "Yes. I'll come."

"Thank you," Sebastian said, sounding relieved. He pulled out his phone, took all of three seconds to send a text, and tucked it back in his pocket. "Keep up, we're going to be travelling pretty quickly. It's bad." He took off running and John followed him, trying not to lose sight of him in the crowd on the sidewalks. It was a rather long run, and John was a bit out of breath by the end of it. Then Sebastian took a turn down a side alley. John hesitated for a moment, then followed him in.

There was a black car in the alley, half-hidden by shadows. Sebastian threw open one of the doors, and looked back to John.

"Hurry up!" he called, and slid inside. John got into the passenger's side, and glanced over at his friend. "Just as a warning, we might break a couple traffic laws. Don't worry about the police, we've got the priority. Just don't throw up on me, okay?" Without waiting for a response, he pulled out into traffic and, true to his word, drove like a maniac.

John watched out his window as the city blurred around them. Sebastian wasn't as bad as Moriarty. He didn't speed through intersections, and he was constantly muttering apologies as he cut people off. But he was close, very close.

"Sorry," Sebastian said to him. "I hate driving like this, but it has to happen sometimes."

"It's fine, I've seen worse," John said truthfully, which earned him a skeptical look from Sebastian before the man turned his attention back to the mess he was making of the road.

Finally, they pulled onto a side street, through a few alleys, and onto a wide back road leading to a warehouse on the river. The doors were open, and they drove into the huge, looming building. Sebastian screeched to a stop, and they both jumped out as the front doors of the warehouse began to close with a horrible rattling screech of metal on metal. Sebastian led the way, and John looked around himself with wide eyes.

They were in a large room, filled with vehicles of all sorts. Black stretch limos, bright neon-coloured cars, an ambulance, a circus truck, police cars, and cabs. Then Sebastian was ushering him through a door on the far wall, and they were in a concrete hallway lined with open doorways. As they ran, John peeked through them, getting snapshots of movement and odd scenes. There were laboratories, storage rooms, a library, a restaurant, and other strange setups. They passed them all by and turned onto another hallway, which sloped up slightly, and had closed doors along it.

Sebastian led him up and stopped, pushing one of the doors open and gesturing John inside. He stepped in, and was hit with a familiar scene. Surgery tables and women in white uniforms, red on their gloves, three of them, rushing around. They all stopped when the two men came in, turning.

"The doctor is here," Sebastian said. "You'll take orders from him now." They all nodded and turned to John.

"Alright. So, all of you know what you're doing?" John asked. There was a little pause, and then two of them shook their heads, the other made a wavering sign. "Use words, your left to right, and talk quick. I need to know what I'm dealing with, and I need it from someone who can actually tell."

"I don't know anything!" the first one cried. "My brother was shot, and he's not-"

"And you?" John cut her off, pointing at the next one. Usually he wouldn't be so rude, but if lives were at stake, they were far more valuable than one woman's feelings.

"I don't know either," said the girl, and she truly was a girl, probably not even eighteen yet.

"I know a little," the last woman said. "I helped the last doctor, but he always did the actual work."

"Fine. You two leave, you stay and help," John said, waving a hand at the useless ones and nodding to the red-head who had been the doctor's assistant. "Tell me what's happening, and quickly."

"There are five patients still alive, they were all shot around ten minutes ago," she said quickly. "One woman, three men, and a child. Woman in the left chest, child in the leg and lower abdomen, one man center chest, one lower back, and one in the leg."

"Get me whatever painkillers you have in IV. Something to get the bullets out, something to cauterize the wounds, your suture equipment, bandages, antiseptic, a mask and gloves for me," John reeled off, mindful of the fact that Sebastian had warned him they didn't have too many resources. The oddness of this was pushed to the back of his mind as he focused on working with what he had. He pulled off his jacket, simply tossing it into a far corner, and slipped on the gloves and mask the red-head girl had given him. Then he assisted the woman in hanging up the IV tubes and setting the drip-time, sliding them into his patients' veins with a practiced motion. Then he hesitated.

This was the deliberation of an army doctor. When there were too many people, you had to prioritize. Who was in need of immediate care? Who could survive an hour by themselves? And, the hardest decision, who was too far gone? If you spent crucial time trying to help them, someone else could die, and if they weren't savable, they would die anyways.

_Quick, John, think!_ he told himself, bringing up diagrams in his head as he moved from patient to patient, estimating the damage for each wound. Who would bleed out when? Who could he stitch up quickly and come back to later? Calculate, quickly, and then act.

So John moved to his first patient, giving rapid orders to his single nurse to bandage another one until he could get there, half-watching her movements and then focusing on getting out the piece of metal that had made its way so deeply into its target.

The next hours were exhausting, bloody, and stressful. But John found himself feeling alive again, finally. With the needle in his fingers, and the wounds closing like lips, sewn with black thread and covered with white gauze. Blood on his gloves and smeared over skin. The clatter the bullets made when he dropped them onto the metal tray. And the sizzle, the stomach-turning smell of burning flesh when he cauterized the bullet-holes that needed it. Red blood, pale skin, black thread. Bone flashing through at him in some places, so delicate and beautiful, all of it overwhelming and bright, so real and dreamlike.

And then was the moment when John looked down and saw the little girl he'd just saved. He hadn't even seen her face before, too focused on the holes the bullets had torn in her body, only seeing her blood and injuries. But now he could see _her, _so young, probably only seven years old. Her dark hair cut short, cheeks hollow with past hunger, and skin pale with blood loss. The bandages barely stood out against it, almost white as it was.

Then he was moving on to the next patient, but the image had stuck in his brain. John knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that wasn't absorbed in the stitches and calculations, that it wasn't an image he would forget. The little girl had somehow been shot, introduced to the horrors of the world so early, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had questions.

But one of the men was coughing up blood, and John was moving to his side, even though he'd known this would happen. The bullet had gotten his lung, and it had only been a matter of time before it filled with blood. He watched as the blue eyes dulled and the man slumped, surrendering to death. And the questions were lost as he moved on, leaving the dead man behind so that he could give the others a chance at life.

Blood. Veins. Pulse. Breath. Thread. Needle. Bone. Metal. Morphine. Antiseptic. Cold skin. Bandages. Minutes, hours, seconds, passing, his fingers cramping and his vision blurring, almost finished, almost done.

And then the last wound was covered with a white bandage, and John stared along the row of people, at the red soaking through the bandages, and the nurse just staring at him.

"Get people. They just have to put pressure on some of the wounds. The ones with blood, see, you might have to change. Press gently, make sure it all goes right. Wake me up if anyone's dying." John wasn't really making much sense, not his thoughts even, they were all muddled and fuzzy. But the adrenaline rush had long since faded, and he was so very, very tired. So he stumbled his way over to an empty medical bed and let himself fall onto it. It felt ridiculously soft, and he didn't even feel his eyes close.

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_A/N:Well, then. Looks like I have readers! I was so pleasantly surprised to find all your comments waiting for me when I finally logged in! I will not doubt you again, I promise!_

_And I must apologize for the slow chapters. Just like you, I want it to be action all the time, but if there's no actual time apart, it seemed sort of ridiculous to separate them at all. Nevertheless, sorry. From now on, I'll post the boring chapters with a really exciting one. Like the next chapter, where Sebastian's 'mysterious' employer is revealed. There's really no point in suspense when we all know who it is, but you can't blame me for savoring the moment, can you?_

_I really liked getting all that feedback, even the criticism of the boring chapters. If you have something to say, then speak up! Don't go back into the shadows after this, please! See you next time for Melodramatic Madmen, which should be up very soon indeed. _


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Melodramatic Madmen.**

_"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked._

_"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here."_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

Someone was shaking him. John noticed this in some part of his mind, while the rest of him focused on trying to get back to sleep. It had been so lovely, resting in that cool oblivion, it hadn't been long enough, and his head hurt. But he recognized that voice, it registered somewhere in his fuzzy mind, and he had to open his eyes.

"Doctor? Doctor!" One eye open. Other eye open. There was the red-haired girl, staring down at him worriedly. He had told her to wake him up if someone was dying.

"What's happened?" he asked, blinking himself into awareness. The red-head glanced over her shoulder, at something out of John's sight. Then she turned back to him seriously.

"Your patients are fine. They all made it through the night, except for the one that died before you fell asleep. I'm sorry for waking you up, but someone's here to see you." John pushed himself up with one arm, and rubbed at his eyes, then his temples.

"Who wants me? I've got to check on my patients first." The woman simply gestured towards the door. The first thing John saw was the bodies, still on the tables, many of the morphine drips running low, and the people who were there to apply pressure to the wounds. Then he saw Sebastian, leaning against the wall. He'd changed, combed his hair, and was looking a lot better than John felt.

"Hey," he greeted John, coming towards the bed. "Congrats, I see you haven't lost your touch. You saved four lives in as many hours. Not bad, not bad at all." John swung his legs over the side of his bed, avoiding his friend's eyes.

"I let one of them die," he muttered. Sebastian rested a hand on his shoulder.

"That's not true, it wasn't your fault. You did all you could to help them."

"I could have saved him." John finally raised his eyes to meet the surprised gaze of the other man. "If I cauterized his wound, the child would have bled out. If I saved the child, his lungs would fill. I had to make a choice, and I _let _him die."

"But you saved the girl," Sebastian said. "There's something I've learned while working here, and that's that you've got to always look at the positive side of what you've done. It's the only way to stay sane. Or, you know, as sane as you can get around here." He smiled. "Listen, you did a great job, and my boss wants to meet with you to thank you personally."

"Well, that doesn't sound ominous," John said sarcastically. He pushed himself to his feet and stretched, feeling his spine crack.

"No, he's not going to kill you." Sebastian said, rolling his eyes. Then he muttered something under his breath, which John cynically assumed to be 'at least, he'd better not'.

"Sounds reassuring," John said. "But I have to redo some of the stitches, change all of the bandages, and set up a bit of a system with the workers I have. None of them will be recovering for several weeks, so whichever one is the doctor will be out of service for a while. In fact, I'd recommend keeping them under for two more days, and a moderate morphine dosage for ten days after that."

"I'm not the one that needs to know all that. Tell it to the boss."

"I'm not leaving this place for at least three hours, I'm sure you can tell him that," John said firmly. Sebastian stared at him disbelievingly.

"Listen, you don't know who you're dealing with here. I do, I know him, and telling him to just wait a few hours is not going to go down well. You want him in a good mood when you first meet him, you've got to trust me on this."

"I'm sorry, Sebastian. I don't mean to get you in trouble. But I'm not leaving my patients, no way in hell. Okay? Thank you. Now, I'll text you when I'm done here, and then you can take me to meet this mysterious boss of yours."

"John, you don't know-" Sebastian began halfheartedly, and John cut him off.

"No, I don't know. But believe me, I don't care, and I've probably dealt with worse. _You _don't know the types of people I've had to deal with." Psychopaths and sociopaths, consulting criminals, consulting detectives, and the British government personified. No, nothing could phase him now.

"Fine. Your neck," Sebastian said impatiently, and walked out. John stood up with a groan, and shook the remaining sleep-fuzziness from his head. He knew his friend was angry with him, but it couldn't be helped.

"Alright. What's your name, then?" he asked the red haired woman, who had been watching the entire exchange with wide eyes.

"Kathy," she answered, almost shyly.

"Well, Kathy, I'm John. I guess we'll be working together for a day or two. And these are the people you recruited to help?" He gestured towards the people he had noticed earlier. "Do any of them have actual medical knowledge?"

"No, but they're smart, and they learn fast. We all do," Kathy said defensively.

"I believe you," John said simply, then paced up and down the row of beds once, assessing as best he could with his eyes. "Right, so. I've got to redo the stitches on her, her, and him," he said, pointing to the patients in question. "Then I've got to calculate a regular morphine dosage, and write that down for you so that you can adjust it daily. You know how to do that?" Kathy nodded. "Good. Well, I'll start with the stitches, and then I'll have to change all the bandages. You'll be doing it next time, so I can run you through it." John pulled on a new pair of gloves, and got to work.

The afternoon passed with the typical post-surgery work, cleaning up the patients and changing their bandages, checking their stitches, weighing and calculating dosages. His last stop was the little girl, whose leg had to be re-stitched. Once she was done, he paused to stare at her, as he had done yesterday.

She was probably only seven years old. Only in Year One. What was she doing here? Earlier, the situation had seemed completely natural to John, but now it didn't line up. Why choose an ex-army doctor, who had done no previous work for the group? Why not take the men to a hospital, or hire a professional surgeon? And how on earth did a young child get shot, and why were her parents not with her, and why wasn't she in a hospital? Why all the secrecy? What was going on?

He turned to Kathy, who was putting antiseptic onto one of the men at the end of the row of beds. He'd dismissed the other workers, who had traipsed out happily. Now it was just them and the four surviving patients.

"Kathy," he said, and she looked over at him. "Where am I? What is this place?" She blinked, then glanced around as though expecting someone to be standing in the corner of the room.

"It's Brewer's," she said quietly. Unfortunately, that didn't help John very much.

"And what _is _that, exactly?" She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly nervous.

"To be honest, doctor, I don't know much more than you do. My friend brought me here when my life got, well, over complicated. They helped me to disappear, and gave me a new job helping the doctor. But I don't really know what the whole place is _for. _People come and go, but they don't talk to me. Everyone's rather tight-lipped, I'm sure you've noticed."

_Well, that was helpful, _John thought sarcastically. Then he decided he was being too hard on the young woman. She obviously hadn't had an easy life, and was scared of crossing the wrong people. Speaking of which…

"And who's this mysterious boss that I've supposedly offended?"

"He's called M," Kathy said in a hushed voice. "No one ever sees him, but everyone knows about him. He controls who does what, who knows what, and who gets in or out."

"But who _is _he?" John pressed. "Surely you must know _something._"

"Only rumors," the girl shrugged. "Some people say it's a council that's pretending to be one person. Lots of people think that Mr. Moran is M, because he's the closest anyone's ever seen. Some people say that he doesn't even exist, that he's a computer. And other people have ridiculous theories. He's actually a child, or an alien, or some sort of mythical creature… stupid things like that."

"Oh." John hesitated, taken aback. He'd known that Sebastian was the second in command of some sort of secret organization, but he hadn't expected something of this scale, or this level of secrecy. Even the employees didn't know their own boss, for Christ's sake! Then again, Kathy could be lying, keeping him in the dark. But she seemed rather transparent, and at this moment, sincere.

And then who was this 'M'? There was Moriarty, of course. But John had never heard him called simply 'M'. Moriarty, yes. JM, yes. But never a single initial. It seemed too simple for such a melodramatic man. Mycroft, on the other hand, signed his texts with an 'M,' and he was certainly paranoid enough to make this whole setup. But something was definitely off about the situation.

As Sherlock would say, he was speculating with insufficient data, which could only lead to incorrect conclusions. It was best to wait and see what happened. In the meantime, he could give Kathy a lesson in infection and shock, so that he could actually get going. He didn't want to keep the ominous 'M' waiting too long, despite his earlier confidence in front of Sebastian.

He turned his attention to the patients, taking Kathy along with him and teaching her what to keep an eye out for while he was gone. He patted his phone, ensured that it was on, and entered his number into Kathy's cell, just in case. They should all be fine for the moment, but there was no reason to take chances.

Then, once everything was taken care of, he brought out his phone and sent a short text to Sebastian, telling him that he was ready to go. It wasn't five minutes before Sebastian walked into the makeshift hospital, texting with one hand.

"Come with me," he said, voice professional, almost cold. John blinked, but did as he was told. As they walked out of the room, he shared a worried look and a wave with Kathy. Then they were back in the wide hallway, walking at a fast pace.

"Sebastian?" John asked, and got a sideways look from his friend. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he said gruffly. "The boss isn't very happy, and it took me a bit of talking to get him off the war path. Christ, John, you're already annoying him, and you haven't even met him yet!" There was a moment of silence. John really had nothing to say to that. "Just…" Sebastian started, then trailed off. "Just don't be pointlessly brave, okay?"

"What's _that _supposed to mean?" John asked. Being brave was never pointless, in his experience. Even if you lost the fight, at least you were making a statement. If you got through to someone, you won the argument, and you had to stand up to do that.

"I know you, John. You don't back down, even when you're hopelessly outnumbered. But that isn't a good strategy here, okay? You've got to give some ground with this guy, meet him on his own terms, because he'll never meet you halfway. I just needed… wanted to tell you that. Give you a bit of warning." John shrugged, obviously unaffected. Sebastian clenched his teeth, unhappy with his friend's nonchalance. "He could kill you and leave you in front of the police department with his signature and fingerprints all over you. And they still wouldn't catch him. I don't want to see you hurt, or worse, John. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."

They were walking down a nicer wing of the warehouse-turned-headquarters now, with light wood doors, and clean floors. There were fewer people hurrying back and forth, and the people who passed them were wearing suits, rather than the mixed style of the people in the concrete hall. John listened to the sound of his shoes on the floor, and worried about the fact that there was blood on his jumper, and avoided giving Sebastian an answer.

"John. Come on, be reasonable. I recommended you. We're both in this together, and I'm the one who knows what he's doing. Just follow my lead, yeah?"

"Yeah, alright," John conceded, with an internal sigh. He didn't want to get Sebastian into trouble, but neither did he want to be bowing at the feet of some man he didn't know, just because he had political power. It wasn't really something John valued. Friends and self were what you had to rely on. Not money and business partners.

"Thank you." Sebastian sounded relieved, and John did his best not to feel offended. But he _was _the one that always took the stand. Sebastian preferred to solve things in other, slower ways, but they were just as effective. John had to trust him in this strange new world, trust him to get them both through it.

They took a series of strange turns, and John began to feel as though he were in a labyrinth, making his way to the center to complete his quest. The center of the web, where the mysterious M waited like a spider… Spider? Moriarty… No, no, that was a name that was proudly displayed, a name that everyone knew. Not a name hidden behind an initial.

Oh, they were slowing down now! John looked around, and realized his surroundings had changed yet again. The floor was marble, and the doorways were open, leading to offices where men and women were watching computer screens that showed street views and office spaces, and other scenes from around the country… Around the _world, _John corrected himself as he caught sight of the Statue of Liberty in the background of one of the shots.

At the end of the hallway was a black door, and that was where Sebastian was leading them.

"Rather melodramatic," John commented.

"Yeah, that's a word you could use to describe him." They stopped in front of the door, and Sebastian tapped out a short pattern that John automatically translated to "SM" in Morse code. Sebastian Moran, the initials. Melodramatic indeed, considering that he could just call out his name.

"Come in!" the voice called, and John froze. He knew that voice. Sebastian swung the door open, and pushed John in. Black eyes locked with blue, trapping him with intensity. Sebastian entered behind him, closing the door, then felt the tension and looked from one man to the other as they stared each other down. Finally, the man at the desk started to laugh, the sound high and delighted. "Johnny boy! What a surprise!"

"Moriarty," John responded evenly.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry, this isn't a very good chapter. I was sort of half-asleep when I edited it. The next chapter might take a week or so, because it's being really stubborn. And also, homework. I'll see you then, anyways. Have an exciting week, and remember to leave a review!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Multifaceted.**

_"The rabbit-hole went on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well."_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

Sebastian stared at them as they stared at each other, blue eyes locked with black. "Hang on, you _know _each other?"

"He tried to blow me up, killed my best friend, then took me out for dinner," John said slowly, without looking away from the unexpected man behind the desk.

"Took you out for drinks once, too," Moriarty added happily, then broke their staring match to glance over at Sebastian. "He never told you he was living with Sherlock Holmes? I'm surprised. Usually he goes _on _and _on _about him. So amazing, so intelligent, so… What was your catchphrase? Oh, yes. So _brilliant. _Isn't that right, Johnny?" John shifted from one foot to the other.

He hadn't mentioned Sherlock, because he hadn't wanted to get into a fight with his only friend about whether the consulting detective had been a fraud. Also, he just _didn't want to talk about it. _Why didn't anyone get that?

"_You _were the flatmate?" Sebastian's voice was incredulous as he stared at John. Then he turned on Moriarty. "Why didn't you tell me this? Jim, your list of people not-to-kill is six people long. John Watson is on that list, and don't you _dare _tell me you deleted it."

"I knew you'd have this sort of reaction," Jim sighed dramatically, hanging his head back to look at the ceiling. "That's why I sent you to America while this all played out. John was never in any _real _danger. Not unless Sherlock screwed up, and I trusted him not to. Here he is, look, still alive. Now don't yell at me like that."

"Not in any _real danger?_" John asked incredulously. "I was strapped to a bloody _bomb vest!_"

"And Sherlock saved you, just like he was supposed to. Yes, there were a couple moments here and there where I thought he might go off-script and mess up the whole thing, but he didn't, and we're all living happily ever after. Well, except for Sherlock, but that's got nothing to do with anything."

"You can't _do _things like that! When you have a list of people not to kill, you also don't put those people in situations where they 'might be killed'!" Sebastian shouted. In one movement, Moriarty was out of his seat with one hand around Sebastian's throat. Sebastian was much taller, but the other man's grip was strong, as evidenced by the fear on Sebastian's face as he struggled for breath.

John made a move forwards, then stopped, reminding himself that he was currently in the middle of enemy territory. He would make a move if Sebastian was dying, but until then, it was better to watch.

"Listen to me, Sebby." The nickname was spat venomously. "You work for me, not the other way round, alright? I tolerate you because I like you. But you do _not _tell me what to do, when I own you, body and soul. Never forget that, or I will call in my debt." He released the other man, and Sebastian put a hand to his reddened throat, coughing and inhaling with a sort of squeaking sound. Jim smiled, relaxing back into his chair, and shaking out his hand. "Good. I'm glad you agree. Well, I was planning on either offering the doctor a position, or killing him outright, but Johnny is apparently on my no-kill list, and I'm guessing he wouldn't react well to the offer." He left a pause, inviting John to speak.

"No, I'm not working here," John said shortly. Jim laughed. It was familiar, dangerous, and made John lean towards him slightly before he caught himself and straightened. The sound was simply magnetic, it made the hairs on John's neck stand up.

He thought about Sherlock on the ground, dead, but the image was starting to somehow lose its power. Memories only seem real if you can remember the emotions you felt then, and John's memory of the feelings was starting to fade, the startling image of blood on the sidewalk powerless by itself. So he called up another image, of a delicate little girl on an operating table, beside the men that worked for Moriarty. "Why was that girl shot?" he asked out loud.

"What girl?" Moriarty asked carelessly.

"The one that I operated on. Shot once in the abdomen, once in the leg. Came very close to dying. Why was she shot? What was she doing in the firing line?" Moriarty straightened, and looked to Sebastian, who looked at the floor.

"Seb? A Misfit was shot? Why did I not know this?"

"You didn't read my report," Sebastian answered quietly. "It was Sammy." Moriarty scrunched up his face, then looked up at the ceiling again.

"Brought in by Socks two years ago. Trailing Des at the time of the incident…." He recited, then turned to John. "I honestly have _no _idea. Tell you what. You go back to the hospital wing and make sure no one's dying. I'll send you five people with some sort of medical experience. I'll find out what happened, take you out to dinner, tell you the whole story, make you another offer, and then take you home." John hesitated, running over the sequence of events one more time in his head and making sure there were no loopholes that Moriarty would exploit.

"Sounds fair," he said, nodding.

"Good. Seb, take our doctor back to his ward, then come back. Johnny, you've got your phone, yes?" John nodded, and Moriarty simply waved a hand, clearly dismissing them. Sebastian opened the door and let John go out first, back into the marble-floored hallway. They started to walk, feet loud on the floor, silence thick between them.

John's only friend was working for Moriarty. How could he have missed it? How could Sebastian _do _something like that? He turned to his friend, and they both spoke at the same time.

"Why would you work here?" "So, you lived with Sherlock Holmes?"

Both of them paused and looked at each other, then laughed. John shook his head and answered first.

"Yeah, I was Sherlock's flatmate. Lived together, worked together, travelled together."

"Slept together?" Sebastian interjected, and John sighed.

"No. I'm straight," he said, without much conviction. As Irene had once pointed out, sexuality seemed to make an exception for Sherlock.

"What happened between him and Jim, anyways? I only heard bits and pieces while I was in America, and by the time I got back, it was all over. Guess I know why now. But I've always been curious."

"It's a long story," John said. "I don't even know all of it, and I only figured out some parts of it afterwards. He was balancing Mycroft and Sherlock, giving Sherlock puzzles to distract him, and playing worldwide games with Mycroft at the same time."

"He's brilliant," Sebastian said, admiration in his voice. John tried not to cringe, remembering how he used to talk about Sherlock like that, in that same voice, using those words.

"One of the puzzles was a series of bombings. If Sherlock didn't figure out the puzzle, then the people would die. I was the last threat, thus the bomb vest, but we stalemated. Sherlock almost killed all three of us, but then Moriarty got a call and backed down. He sent Irene next."

"I remember her," Sebastian commented. "She was something else, wasn't she? A little too sane to survive, but she was…" He trailed off, unable to find the right word.

"I don't know what happened, the last time everything went to shit," John continued over his friend. "Sherlock did his best to keep me out of it. Well, Moriarty planted two messages in two communities. He told the criminal side that he had a secret code to break into anywhere, and Sherlock had it. He told the police and the media that Sherlock was a fake. So then we were outlaws. After that, I don't know what happened. I got a call telling me to go back to Baker Street, because our landlady was dying, but when I got there, she was fine. I realized Sherlock must be in trouble, so I came back. Next thing I know, he's up on the roof, telling me he's a fake and he's going to jump. He does, he dies. Someone tells me there's another man dead on the roof, shot himself in the head. It's Moriarty. They're both dead, one comes back, here we are."

"Wow," Sebastian breathed. "And I thought that what I was doing in America was complicated. I wonder how he does it, keeps all those jobs and plans straight in his head? He seems so unorganized, chaotic, but somehow everything fits into place. Don't you wonder?"

"No," John replied shortly, although it was a lie. "I believe this is my door. You'd better get back to Jim." He knew he sounded cold, but this whole situation was unbelievable, and Sebastian didn't even seem touched by it. His _boss _had murdered John's _friend, _and he didn't even care.

"Yeah, you're right. Hey, John?" John was already walking towards the door, but he turned back. "I don't feel bad about Sherlock's death. It had to happen. But I _am _sorry that you were hurt by it. I'm sorry you got pulled into all of this, I wouldn't have brought you here if I'd known."

"I know," John said, and closed the door behind him.

The afternoon passed quickly. The five people Jim sent were better than the original girls, but they weren't exactly Med School graduates. John felt like he was giving a lecture to a class, teaching them how do deal with this and that. He was most concerned by the girl, Sammy. She needed surveillance, by someone who knew what they were doing. The others could get by, they were strong. But not such a young child, her body couldn't handle it. She needed to be in a hospital.

Kathy was a great help, running around and repeating John's instructions, making lists and charts, even getting John some new, un-bloodstained clothes. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out.

Come to my office. JM

"Said the spider to the fly," John muttered, and put the phone away. He glanced up to see his six workers looking at him worriedly. Kathy finally spoke.

"Are you leaving now?"

"Yeah, I've been called. Um… Sorry. But you're all doing very well, I think you'll do just fine. Kathy has my phone number, you can call me if something bad comes up, okay?"

"Yes, doctor," one of the men said.

"Just John," John repeated for the hundredth time. "So…" There was a time of awkward silence. "Good-bye?"

"Thank you," Kathy said. "You probably saved their lives." John just dipped his head, and then made for the door, because as uncomfortable as he was with the fact, it was true. But it was just his work, it was who he was. It wasn't heroic or outstanding, like so many people made it out to be. Doctors saved lives, teachers taught, children played, it was the way of the world. It was instinct.

The door shut, and he stood in the hallway, looking around. 'Come to my office'. That was all well and good when Sebastian was leading him, but this building was bloody huge, and John hadn't really been paying attention when he was being led there. Luckily, he'd always had a good mind for direction (nothing like Sherlock's, of course), so he set off to his right, following his gut. Turn and turn again. The décor changes helped him, because he knew when it started to get more posh, he was getting closer. And soon enough the floors were marble, and he made his way to the black door.

Remembering what Sebastian had done, John tapped his initials, and waited.

"Come in!" Jim's voice sang, and John walked inside. The black eyes turned to him, and there was that Cheshire grin, too wide, too many teeth. "Hello, Johnny Boy. Ready to go?"

"I am," John said, and Jim swept out of the office, closing the door behind him and setting off down the hall. John half-expected people to fall onto their knees as Jim walked by, considering the mystery and awe surrounding 'M', but no one spared them a second glance, even as the hallways got more and more busy. "They don't know who you are," John stated.

"Nope!" Jim said cheerily. "And you have _no _idea what's going on, do you?" John shook his head reluctantly. "Secrets for secrets, Johnny, and I don't feel very inclined to talk right now." They came out into a familiar room, where John and Sebastian had come in and parked their car. Jim spread his arms out, as though embracing the pure variety of cars. "Pick a ride, any ride."

John traced his eyes over the cars, the trucks, the buggies, the vans, the taxis. "Um… that one?" he suggested, pointing out a sedate-looking black car. Jim gave him an odd look.

"That one's my favorite. I have the keys right here," and indeed he did. "Were you nosing around in my head?" His eyes narrowed, and his tone was serious. John fought the urge to run, or laugh.

"Nope, just a random pick. I like it, it's not noticeable, but it still looks nice. Tinted windows, too, so that's one less thing to worry about, right?" He was babbling now, so he pressed his lips together, effectively shutting himself up. Jim was still eyeing him very suspiciously. "Honestly," he said quietly.

"I know," Jim said with a sudden smile. "Now come one, we'll lose our table if we're late." He slid into the driver's seat, and John took the passenger's, putting on his seatbelt just in time. They slid out of the parking spot and the doors opened for them. Then they were racing out, tires hitting the gravel road behind the factory and sliding, spinning them around the sharp curve and then picking up friction, sending them rocketing down the back road and into the traffic.

John took a deep breath and told himself to trust the manic driver beside him, as they tore apart the road. He blocked out the sound of the horns, and watched the destruction unfold. His attention was captured by one of the CCTV cameras they were driving past. It made a slow circle, turning around neatly so that it was surveying the area, but completely missed the black car speeding down the street. As he began watching them, he realized that all of them did the same thing.

"You've got the cameras rigged? Thought Mycroft would be preventing that."

"Complicated," was Jim's answer. "He used to be looking out for my interference. But now he's not so concerned with Moriarty's people, which is one of the perks of being dead. You get to take everyone off-guard." John just nodded, and left Jim to concentrate on his driving. Despite the ease of the answer, John didn't want to distract the criminal mastermind, not when they were tearing down the road at over 60mph, on a crowded London street.

Finally, they pulled to the right, through advancing traffic, and into a parking lot, where they slid neatly into a free space. Then Jim got out and opened the door for John, bowing low like a footman. "M'lady," he said mockingly. Rather than make an issue of it, John got out without comment.

"Thank you," he said simply, and then let Jim close the door and lead the way towards the restaurant. "High-class pizza?" he asked when he saw the sign. "How does that even work?"

"Specialized. You ask for it, they make it. Quite convenient, really." They made their way inside, and were seated by a red-haired man with a half-hearted attempt at a mustache. His name was Bob, and he was going to be their server for the evening, apparently.

John and Moriarty made their drink orders, both opting for waters, and then settled in to make their choices. Or rather, Jim pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down orders for both of them, while John was still looking through the menu. Then everything was set aside, and they made eye contact. The anger in the back of John's mind flared up again, and he took a deep breath before speaking.

"So. You said you'd tell me the whole story now. I want to know why a seven year old girl was shot during one of your operations, and why isn't in a hospital right now, because that's where she needs to be."

"I _did _say I'd tell you, didn't I?" Moriarty mused, took a drink of water, then tilted his head to one side. "A long time ago, when I started my little network, I realized that I needed more people. Sherlock had the homeless people already loyal to him, most of the business owners were indebted to Mycroft, and the people who weren't connected to one of the Holmes boys were working for drug dealers, pimps, or mob bosses. So where could I find people that I wouldn't be constantly worrying about their loyalty?" He made a thoughtful face, tapping a finger on his cheek.

"Then I realized, there was a group that had been overlooked. They'd been thought useless, immature, not ready, or too obvious. But the truth was that, if they were handled the right way, they could be sneaky, quiet, unexpected, good listeners, and most importantly, completely loyal. And that was the children. There are dozens of children on the streets of London, or in homes that are even worse. Give them food, a toy, a phone, some instructions, and praise for a job well done? Words spreads among them, never reaching the ears of adults. They come to you in packs, and they're so willing to do _anything _for you."

"So you send them out to kill?" John asked, who had been becoming more and more horrified as the explanation went on.

"Goodness, no," Moriarty said, his eyes wide and innocent. "I have experienced men to do that. No, children are willing to do anything, but not without beginning to lose their youth. And that's what makes them valuable, the air of innocence about them. People answer their questions. People follow them if they ask. But if a child kills, you can tell. They stop being a child."

The waiter came and took their orders, while John mused over what Moriarty had just told him. Once the red-haired Bob left, Jim turned back and picked up his story from where he had left off.

"So I ended up with around sixty children, who spied and ran messages and knew the shortcuts of the city like the backs of their hands. Sebastian came up with the name Misfits, and the group's only been growing. They take it in groups and shifts, and there's safe houses for them all over the city. Sammy was warning a group of my men that another group, working for an American boss, was coming. Unfortunately, they got there before anyone could react, and Sammy was caught in the crossfire, according to my men's reports. Brewer's is on the warpath, all my workers love the Misfits."

There was silence, as John pondered this information. It was hard to accept. Very hard. On one hand, there was the Moriarty that almost killed children with chocolate, and killed Sherlock, and strapped people to bombs, and blew up a random old lady because she started describing his voice. On the other hand, there was the Moriarty that took John out for dinner, and earned the loyalty of John's friend, and saved over 60 children from the streets, giving them a purpose.

It wasn't supposed to be like this! Moriarty was the villain, and that was all! A perfect story-book villain, just as he had made himself. And what was this? Some sort of upside to him? Yes, of course everyone was three-dimensional, but Moriarty was the exception, and always had been, by his own choice! Now he was Jim, who couldn't care less about most people's lives, but reacted sharply when one of his own was injured. A man who liked grilled cheese, and hated pineapple on his pizza, who hated when people told him what to do, and loved to tell stories of all kinds. A _man. _

John looked across the table as their separate pizzas were set down in front of them, meeting dark eyes and holding their gaze. They were not empty holes, they were not pits of darkness, they weren't even black, not really. In the light of the restaurant, John could suddenly tell that they were dark brown. He could see his reflection inside them. They were human eyes, not spider's eyes. Moriarty is a man. Jim is human. Psychopathic, murderous, amoral, unpredictable, dangerous, but human.

One more puzzle piece slid into place, one more rope bound them together. John was really down the rabbit hole now, but there was nothing he could do to stop himself from falling.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry about the wait. School's a bitch. Review if you please, go if you won't, hail and farewell. I'll try to have the next chapter up for mid-week. Also, there was a ton of British stuff in here that I wasn't quite sure about, so if I screwed something up, let me know! See you next time._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Making a deal.**

_"How cheerfully he seems to grin,_

_How neatly spreads his claws,_

_And welcomes little fishes in,_

_With gently smiling jaws!"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

"What's going on with this whole 'M' thing? Never heard you call yourself that before," John said, bringing himself back to the present as he spoke.

"Mmhrmmf," Moriarty said with his mouth full, then rolled his eyes and put up a finger as he chewed and swallowed. "Moriarty is dead, in both public and underworlds. In his place, a mysterious crime boss named M has risen up, taking over most of Moriarty's empire, and expanding it. It was easy and convenient. New name, new mystery, new game with Mycroft."

"Fair enough," John said, then took a bite of his own pizza. It was delicious. He made a humming sound that was probably indecent, but he really didn't care. Now he understood what they meant by high-class pizza. It wasn't too greasy, the cheese was soft, the toppings were fresh, and he wouldn't even be able to tell that it was the same food PizzaPizza sold if it didn't say so on the sign. He could feel Moriarty's eyes on him, but he ignored him as he made his rapid way through his meal.

"Salt, please," Jim said with a smirk, and John passed him the shaker. "Thanks," he said, and poured most of the container onto his last piece of pizza.

"Are you _crazy?_" John yelped, appalled at the thought of ruining such an amazing meal. He was favored with an unimpressed look from Moriarty. "I'm sorry, killing people is one thing, but ruining this pizza is an entirely new level of insanity!'

John suddenly remembered who he was talking to, and bit down on his pizza to shut himself up. Jim was grinning again, and John berated himself. To joke about that sort of thing with a _friend _or a _colleague _was one thing, but actually making jokes about it while with an honest-to-god murderer was, as he had said, an entirely new level of insanity.

"We're all mad here," Moriarty grinned. "I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" John asked, then realized that he had played straight into the quotation.

"You must be, or you wouldn't have come here," Jim answered, and John had to smile. How true was that? Then he realized he was sharing a smile with a criminal mastermind, and looked down at his plate. It was hard to keep hating someone when they were so gravitational. It was getting more difficult to remember the reasons he couldn't just let himself be carried away by Moriarty's current. Even now, he was trying to remind himself of what they were, and it wasn't working. Why couldn't he smile at Jim?

Because he kills people. _I had bad days. _HE kills people for no reason except boredom. _And I kill people for Sherlock. _He killed Sherlock. _Sherlock killed himself. _Because of Moriarty, somehow. _How? _I don't know. He got a little girl shot. _He saved dozens of children from the street. _So that they could help him build a crime empire! _Still saved them. _He's evil. _He's human. _He's a spider. _He's not. _Sherlock said so. _Sherlock is wrong. _

And there, the voice went away. For the first time, John had to correct Sherlock on something that wasn't social skills related. Jim Moriarty was not a spider, he was a man. And Sherlock Holmes was wrong about him, so there. Not a lie, never a lie, but a mistake. Moriarty tricked him into believing that anyone could be so two dimensional. That was the thing about Sherlock. He was so extreme, so sure of his own character, that he assumed no one else was changeable. No one hid anything from him, so when he came face to face with Moriarty, he took what he saw and assumed that was all.

And now John, ordinary John Watson, one of hundreds in the world, was seeing what Sherlock never did. It scared the hell out of him.

"That little girl needs to go to the hospital," he blurted out. They'd both finished their pizzas, and were watching each other warily over the table. "She needs to be watched by someone with medical experience, knowledge, training, not a bunch of half-trained murderers with no experience in children's injuries."

"She can't go to the hospital," Moriarty said firmly. "They would want to send her back home to her parents, and that isn't happening."

"She can't stay there, either," John stated stubbornly, and there was silence.

"I think I have a solution," Jim said. John gestured for him to continue. "She can go home with you."

"What?" John asked, taken completely off-guard.

"It makes sense. You're experienced, you saved her in the first place, you've got the space in your flat. You can keep an eye on her for a few days until she wakes up, and then she'll be fine. You can go to work, and she'll phone you if there's anything wrong. We could organize visiting hours for her friends, I'll pay for all her needs. That way, she neither goes to the hospital, or stays where she is."

"I can't just take a child home with me!" John spluttered. "I'm a doctor, not a babysitter!"

"Well, then, she'll just have to stay where she is," Moriarty said, leaning back. He knew he had John trapped. The doctor bit his lip, debating with himself. Jim was holding all the cards; John had no power here. It was completely insane, it as unfair, it was impossible… but it was the only option.

"Fine. I'll take care of her. Anything I should know about?"

"Perfect." The Cheshire grin was back. "Her name is Sammy. She likes green. The phrase that will calm her down when she wakes up is 'the sun is purple'. I'll send over a box of her possessions, clothes, things like that. Anything else? She likes stories. And she's older than her years. She'll say things that don't seem to make any sense, but you'll see what she means later."

"That's it?" John asked, his brain not really wrapping around the concept that he had just temporarily adopted a seven year old named Sammy.

"For now. I'll text you if I think of anything else. Oh, that reminds me!" He pulled out his phone and tapped out a message. John heard that quiet tone that signified that a text had been sent. "So. I'll pay for our dinner here, drive you home, and Sammy will be there. You'll ask for the next two days off work, say you've got a cold or something, then go back to work at the clinic like nothing's happened. Unless you want to take me up on my job offer?" The words were half-hearted, Moriarty already knew the answer.

"I don't know why I would want to help you or your men," John said. "All you'd do is go out and kill more people."

"I'll tell Seb that if he ends up getting shot while you're at your boring clinic job," Moriarty said, and John fought the automatic flinch. He had forgotten that Sebastian was one of Jim's men, one of the people he was condemning on principle. The two concepts couldn't meet, and John's brain gave up. He simply shook his head. Moriarty, seeing his point was made, just smiled and signaled for the bill.

"You always say you're paying for dinner," John commented, "but you're really not."

"Oh? How's that?" Jim asked, keying in his PIN.

"It's not your money you're paying with."

"And I suppose the money in _your _bank account in _your _bank account is yours?" John opened his mouth to reply, but Jim kept going without waiting for an answer. "No, it's not. It's the clinic's money, but since you work at the clinic, it becomes yours, because you worked for it. Same with mine."

"You mean that credit card is actually attached to one of _your _accounts?" John asked disbelievingly.

"Whose did you think it was?" Jim asked curiously, as he got up and straightened his tie.

"I don't know… Mycroft's?" John was disturbed by the sudden smile that spread across Jim's face.

"Johnny boy, I think you're onto something. I really think you're onto something." John made a silent apology to Mycroft, then made a mental shrug and decided that he couldn't care less about the British government's bank account.

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_A/N: Wow, well, __**that**__ didn't take long. Look at what three reviews and a polite request for an update did! Words can work miracles, guys! So…review! And I'll see you next time 'round! _


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Moriarty, the idol.**

_"Alice laughed. 'There's no use trying,' she said: 'one can't believe impossible things.'"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Through The Looking Glass._

John stood and stared at the girl on his couch. Her hair was long and honey-blonde, her lashes brushing her cheeks as she lay there with her eyes closed. Her arm was out to one side, the IV tube emerging from beneath the tape and spiraling up to a morphine drip. John would have to start weaning her off as soon as possible, to avoid dependence. Normally, he wouldn't have used morphine on a child this young, but materials were materials, and he had saved her life either way.

It was funny, how little time it took for your life to change like this. Yesterday, he'd been looking forwards to a night out with Sebastian, going home, sleeping, and going to work the next day. Instead, he had spent the night saving lives and sleeping in Moriarty's center of crime. Then he'd used the day to train a motely crew of spies and snipers to take care of patients, then spent the evening out with their boss, and now this.

There was a cardboard box beside the bed, which John had already gone through. Three dresses, one set of PJs, one pair of jeans, one pair of black trousers, two T-shirts and a long-sleeved black top. Two picture books, one iPhone(locked), two pairs of shoes, a notebook half-filled with the crayon scribbles of a young child, and two energy bars. Some things were old, some new, most of them slightly worn, but all useful in the life of a child spy.

Sometimes John felt like he'd fallen into some sort of novel, where everything had a purpose and a plot. He wondered where his happy ending was, and what everyone's role was. It wasn't like Moriarty fit the fairy-tale princess bill, and villains rarely had a happy ending. John smiled briefly at the irony. Usually, the heroes survived and the villains threw themselves from tall buildings. Life was so backwards.

He sighed, then turned to go to bed. The girl wouldn't wake until morning, the morphine dosage would ensure that. He had the next two days off, apparently. That gave him time to talk to her, let her know the situation, learn a little more about how 'M' treated his Misfits, and maybe talk her into a better solution. She could go to Child Protection Services, if her home life was really that bad. Anything but being dependent on Moriarty. What a horrible fate for a child.

John climbed under the sheets, and closed his eyes. The too-strange events of the last few days flickered through his mind, and he fell asleep. When he woke, he couldn't remember what he had dreamed of, but he knew it wasn't his usual nightmare.

Oooo000oooO

John was reading a book while he waited. He'd lowered the morphine dosage enough that Sammy should be waking up any minute now. It was half-past two the next day, and he had turned it down around an hour ago. Hopefully she wouldn't move around too much when she woke. Her abdomen had been cauterized, but her leg was done with stitches, which could very well come undone, demanding more morphine so that he could stitch her back up.

He realized that he'd been staring at the same sentence for seven minutes, and set the book aside with a sigh, rubbing at his eyes. He wasn't getting enough sleep, not to be dealing with all of _this_. Of course it had felt nice, being in the front lines again, saving lives, digging out bullets and hearing them clatter against the metal tray. But this was no soldier, hardened against the world and trained for war. This was a little girl, innocent and unprepared.

And that was when she sat bolt upright, eyes scanning the room. They flickered towards him, scanning him from head to toe, and then around the room, focusing on the door. Then she started screaming. John leapt across the room and put a hand over her mouth, cutting her off. Crap, the neighbors were probably going to ask questions about that. But right now he was trying to evade the little girl's flying feet, which were targeting the main centers for pain and debilitation with terrifying accuracy.

"Sammy!" John shouted. "The sun is green! Or blue, or purple, or something weird like that!" The girl immediately stopped fighting him, going limp against the couch, but her eyes were still wide and frightened. Thank goodness he'd been able to remember the code Moriarty had given him… or sort of. Cautiously, John took away his hand. "You're safe, it's okay. I'm a friend."

"You work for M?" the girl whispered, and after a moment's hesitation, John nodded. "I'm safe," she said, a small smiling crossing her face. Then she winced. "I hurt."

"I know. You were sort of shot." Shit, John didn't know how to deal with kids, not really. "I'm a doctor, so M told me to take care of you while you heal. He didn't really give me much choice about it, either." Sammy must have heard the resentment.

"M tells all of us what to do," the girl said, a hint of reproach in her voice. "He's smarter than us, so we have to listen to him. If he trusts you, you must be good." John could find no response to this, so they sat in silence for a few seconds. "My leg really hurts," Sammy said, eyes filling with tears as she spoke.

"I'll check it out," John said. "That's why you don't move when you're hurt, okay?" With professional detachment, he pushed her skirt up. The wound was bleeding a little bit, but the stitches were fine. "You're alright. It's set your healing back a couple days, but you're alright." Sammy calmed down a little bit, and then her eyes widened again.

"Where's Maurice?"

"Who?" John asked, bewildered.

"My _phone_, Maurice!" She sounded incredibly impatient.

"Oh! Your phone! I've got it, hang on." John pulled over the box, took out the phone, and passed it over. The little girl held it close to herself as though it were a favorite toy, smiling fully for the first time. Then she held it away from herself, keyed in a long password, and then flicked around the screen for a short time. John sat by her side, feeling awkward. Eventually, Sammy put down the phone, big eyes meeting John's.

"So have you met him, then?" she asked, confusing him.

"Sorry, who?"

"_M_," Sammy said impatiently. John hesitated. Should he tell her? Had most people met M? Would she trust him more if he said yes? He figured that if he wanted to tell her the truth about Moriarty later on, it would be best to be honest from the start, so that she would know he wasn't lying. He nodded, and the little girl's mouth dropped open. "You _have? _Really? What's he like?" John paused again, trying to decide what to tell her. He'd love to inform her of the reality of the situation, pull her away from Moriarty right away. But on the other hand, she might not believe him. She'd corrected him sharply enough when he'd hinted at a complaint about him.

"Well…" John decided to give as neutral a description as he could. "He's not very tall, but he's got a presence that fills the room. His eyes are so dark that they look black, and he can see everything about you, when he looks at you, in your clothing, and the dirt on your fingers. He's very… changeable. One second he'll be yelling at you, and the next he'll be grinning and telling you that you did very well. He's got a smile that makes you feel uncomfortable, it's just too… wide. It's hard to look at." Sammy was watching him with saucer-like eyes, drinking in his every word. "When he focuses on you, it feels like you're being drawn into a black hole, that's how powerful his eyes are. And his laugh is never the same from day to day, it changes every time. He's like no one you'll ever meet."

There. It was a thin line, to suggest danger, yet not distrust or fear or resentment. John felt that he had done pretty well.

"Wow," Sammy said faintly. "I've never met anyone who's actually met him. Well, I talked to Mr. Moran once, but he wouldn't talk about M if you asked."

"What have _you _heard about him?" John asked, wanting to keep her attention off her leg. Standard procedure with children, distract them for as long as possible.

"Well, he runs things all over the world. Mr. Moran is the closest you can get to him, but no one really knows how many people are between him and M. I already knew about the black eyes. He's really, really, really smart. He can keep all these things in his head at once." Her voice was completely reverent. "He tricks the police all the time, and sometimes he even kills them! Once he got Amanda out of jail, just with four emails. Umm… A lot of the time he's not _really _there, but he's still there, like a movie director. They're not in the movie, but they get the biggest credit, even if people don't remember it. Most of the people that work for him are really nice. They give us food and hug us. But they can't come along on our missions, 'cause they're Bigs."

She sounded absolutely enamored of the mysterious M, even when she talked about him killing police. Then again, street children often got on by stealing, so John could understand an aversion to the law. All the same, it was incredibly disturbing. Moriarty had spoken about their unwavering loyalty, and John had somehow doubted him. Well, here was proof. No matter what John said, he wasn't going to be able to convince the girl, not without taking away her idol. What a strange idea, Moriarty the idol. It was almost impossible to believe, impossible until a little 7 year old was sitting in front of him, talking about Moriarty with adoration in her eyes.

"How did you meet M?" she asked.

"That's a story for another day," John said, and Sammy yawned. "Are you tired?"

"My head isn't, but my eyelids are. How long have I been sleeping before?"

"Maybe a day and a half? That doesn't matter, your body needs time to heal, and it wants you asleep while you do that. You'll probably be sleeping around 14 hours a day. But here, before you fall asleep, eat this. You need it." It was only a piece of bread with butter, but she needed something in her stomach, and he also got two glasses of water into her, before she laid down and closed her eyes.

"What's your name?" she asked without opening them.

"John Watson," he answered.

"Goodnight, John, I love you," she smiled, and then was quiet.

John stared at her for a long moment. Wasn't that sort of quick? As in, ridiculously quick? Then he thought back to his teen years, when he'd made four dollars an hour babysitting the neighbors' kids. They had done the same thing, he remembered. He's always been surprised, but that was just what children did. You played with them for five minutes, and they wanted you to stay forever, without even knowing your name. It was one of the reasons people loved kids so much. Once they trusted you, they didn't stop, and if they liked you, they loved you, and that was that.

John sat in his chair and thought about what he had heard. Then he pulled out a phone and sent a text to the number Moriarty had programmed into his phone last night.

Sammy woke up. Asleep now, but she was very lucid. You've really got the kids brainwashed.-John

I hope you didn't tell her any horror stories about me.-JM

She wouldn't listen if I did.-John

How do you feel about a few of her friends coming over tonight?-JM

How many people? I'll order pizza. -John

Let's say six. They'll be there at 6pm. -JM

Six at six. Want to add another six there?-John

You already did in your message. Saved me the trouble.-JM

So I did. Nevermind, then.-John

He smiled and leaned back, dropping his phone onto the table. The devil's number, how ironic. He had, of course, been insinuating that Jim should finish his number, but John had accidentally done it for him. He was too busy to think about the possible symbolism in that. In the meantime, he set about cleaning his apartment, to accommodate six light-fingered children combined with pizza.

He made sure that there was space around Sammy for them to sit, that the IV drip was out of the way so that it wasn't knocked over, that all his valuables were locked in the bedroom, that Sammy was covered by a blanket and comfortable, and that he had enough worthless plates to give out. Then he called for pizza, getting a variety of toppings.

Finally, he relaxed into his chair and resumed reading his book, doing his best to focus on the page. But as the hands of the clock inched closer to six, he started feeling nervous. What had he agreed to? Six children off the streets, in his apartment? Would he just stay out of the way and let them talk? Would he be expected to interact? Should he put on the telly and let them watch? Or get out a game? But Sammy couldn't play! Was he supposed to have dolls or something? This wasn't a daycare!

There was a knock on the door, and John got up to answer it. It was the pizza man, carrying the two large pizzas that John had ordered. He paid and carried them into the dining room, reorganizing the space so that the kids could serve themselves and then head out the other doorway into the living room.

He went into the living room and put a hand on Sammy's shoulder, leading her out of sleep gently. She blinked up at him, then rubbed her eyes and made as if to sit up. She winced, and John put a hand in the middle of her chest, keeping her down.

"You were shot in the lower stomach, I'd recommend no sit-ups. I'll help." He made a wall of cushions, then lifted her and leaned her against them. "There are a few of the Misfits coming for supper, is that okay? I thought you'd prefer some familiar faces."

"Yeah!" Sammy said, clapping her hands together. "When are they gonna be here?" John looked over at the clock on the wall.

"Around five minutes," he said. "We're having pizza."

"Did you get plain cheese?" Sammy asked. John nodded, and she grinned. "That's my favorite."

"That's M's favorite as well," John commented without thinking. "But he gets other toppings because he feels like he has to. Then he picks them off and eats it like plain cheese pizza." This was something he had learned during their latest outing.

"Wow!" Sammy exclaimed. "I'm like M!" John tried for a smile, but was certain it fell flat. Then there was a knock on the door. The meeting had begun.

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A/N: _Hello, again. Well, this author's note is actually really __**IMPORTANT**__, so listen up. I've gotten several conflicting reviews asking for Johniarty, for no Johniarty, so I'm going to set it all straight in the next chapter, but I want you guys, my readers, to have the choice. If most people want Johniarty, I can certainly do that. If most people don't want it, then I'm happy to leave it out. And if it's a tie, like it is right now, then I'll let the story decide for itself._

_So please leave a review, and tell me whether this story should have a twisted romance at the center of it. If you've already expressed your opinion, please don't repeat, it'll screw up my counting. Alright! Thanks. Tazia out._


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